


The Same Hope

by AuroraExecution, w3djyt



Series: Shatterpoint Theory [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Dooku: Jedi Lost - Cavan Scott, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anakin Skywalker Doesn't Turn to the Dark Side, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Blow Jobs, Bottom Anakin Skywalker, Bottom Obi-Wan Kenobi, Breaking the Jedi Code (Star Wars), But We Have Good Arguments, Canon Rewrite, Excessively long chapter titles because we like to think we're witty, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Force Bond (Star Wars), Get In The Starship We're Fixing Everything, Happy Ending, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Humor, It's Not New It's Just Anakin Again, Kid Fic, M/M, Non-Chronological, Obi-Wan Is Also A Mess Kenobi, POV Multiple, Past Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Past Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Prophecy, Public Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Shatterpoints, Shatterpoints Everywhere, That's Not How The Force Works (Star Wars), Top Anakin Skywalker, Top Obi-Wan Kenobi, Wine pairings, playing fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 179,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22839811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraExecution/pseuds/AuroraExecution, https://archiveofourown.org/users/w3djyt/pseuds/w3djyt
Summary: That one where Obi-Wan and Anakin never sever their Force Bond, break a table and fly off into the Coruscant sunset.Anakin and Obi-Wan run off together (dramatically), Dooku makes better choices with his life (mostly), Palpatine doesn't get why nothing is going according to plan (constantly), negative things happen to Temple furniture (accidentally), and the galaxy is never the same again.[ Dooku signs a treaty, Anakin adopts Yavin, vod'e, Force ghosts, rescued slaves, Force sensitive children and families, and anyone and anything else he can convince to come with him. Obi-Wan just rolls with it with an annoyed sigh. ]
Relationships: Dooku/Sifo-Dyas (Star Wars), Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Series: Shatterpoint Theory [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1641970
Comments: 572
Kudos: 948
Collections: Favorite Rereads, Obikin





	1. In Which Obi-Wan Gets Manhandled in the Present and Anakin is Confused in the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Waifu Wine Pairing: “I Will Follow Him” from Sister Act I
> 
> Tags and rating will go up over time. 
> 
> Story is told rather out of order, but hopefully entirely within theme. Lots of things happen a bit differently in this timeline, so if something doesn't immediately make sense it's probably going to be explained shortly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JEDI SCANDAL!
> 
> Generals Kenobi and Skywalker have disappeared from Coruscant, whereabouts unknown! Despite official inquiries from the Senate and the office of the Chancellor himself, the Jedi High Council refuses to comment. Where have they gone? What are their plans? Is this the end of the The Team? Or could there be some truth to the HoloNet rumors after all?

### The Present: Jedi Temple Main Entrance, Stairs

It’s been years, but Obi-Wan can’t help the slight quirk of his lips when he looks up to the grand entrance of the Jedi Temple.

“It… feels a bit like coming home.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Really? I hadn’t expected that of you, Anakin.”

Anakin’s expression is wry and twinkling from the truth of the barb. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Do I?”

The younger man turns from him with a casual roll of his eyes. Obi-Wan can almost see the sweep of robes that used to accompany the motion where now only the clean lines of carefully tailored pants and a simple—but no doubt expensive—black tunic cling instead. For all her usually extravagant pomp and circumstance, he has to admit Padmé did well with the clothes she’d all but jumped them with the moment they arrived. He lets his gaze linger even as Anakin starts up the wide steps.

It’s a… pleasant… view.

He knows he’s obvious from the roll of easy laughter that drifts back through their bond. There are no words yet, just a glance over a shoulder and the expectant arch of a brow in his direction before Obi-Wan allows his feet to carry him after. Anakin doesn’t tease him openly about it, but he doesn’t need to; it’s all but radiating into the Force surrounding them. Obi-Wan supposes that’s more telling than any words would be to the Jedi waiting for them in the large doorway ahead.

They share a glance when he catches up.

“I meant,” Anakin begins again, tone low and curiously distracted as he looks ahead of them and sees nothing of the welcome party, “it feels like _our_ home. Now.”

Obi-Wan’s hand raises to his beard before he entirely registers the movement, thoughtful as they pause together, instinctively in sync. Anakin is all but buried in the Force in the blink of an eye and his master waits, patient under the watchful gaze of three Council members and several guards lingering at the entrance.

“I can’t say I feel it,” Obi-Wan offers seconds later, just before Anakin’s gaze clears and they move forward again, the shift in awareness obvious to him by now.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Anakin offers with a shrug and a shake of his head. “Feels old.”

“But like home?”

“Mm. Similar. Stifled.” He gives a short laugh, tossing the older man a broad grin. “This place was always like that, though. Maybe it’s just you.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan begins with a tone of warning he doesn’t really feel, “be nice.”

“Of course, Master!”

The happy chime draws a sharp look from their small welcome party, their displeasure clear no matter the placidity of the Force surrounding them.

“Kenobi. Skywalker.”

“Master Windu,” Obi-Wan offers with a polite nod before Anakin can get a word in, receiving a stony nod from Mace and a roll of amusement from his former padawan in tandem. “Masters Tiin and Allie,” he adds to the Iktotchi standing a step back from Windu and the Tholothian woman beside him, alert but calm between the pairs of guards that stand silently at the entrance.

Surprise flitters across the bond, this time accompanied by something more concrete.

< They’re scared. >

< They’re _cautious._ >

Obi-Wan catches him with a glance and one of their old hand gestures. _Back to back._

It’s strangely out of context without the tension of an impending battle, but Anakin can feel his shoulders relax from that one familiar gesture. He nods and they move forward with the pleasantries, welcomed into the complex as much as anyone can be when led by guards and the most martial Jedi Masters the Council could whip up on short notice, it seems.

But whatever the lingering tension and cautious fear that coils up from the depths, his master’s calm belief anchors him before any of it can skitter out from his mental wards and into the air around them. The bond lies wide open between them: less the golden strand of warmth resolutely spanning the distance than a wall of shared defenses encircling the two of them together. He settles into the mental sanctuary with an ease born of practice and trust. The Force will warn him if they really are in danger and it’s best to leave Obi-Wan to the small talk anyway.

Somewhere on the side of the bond that is less him and more Obi-Wan, there’s still a level of caution and the occasional spike of uncertainty, but Anakin finds his mind wandering to the Force suffusing the Temple rather than lingering on internal matters. If anything, it’s reassuring to know Obi-Wan is intentionally maintaining their mental defenses as if they are one entity rather than two joined in the Force.

Obi-Wan never used to be as open about his concerns, especially not in the Temple. Times have changed, thinks Anakin, but some things are still the same; for as long as Anakin can remember, they’ve always been okay as long as they’re together.

They are, after all, still The Team.

### Earlier That Day: Coruscant, Off-World Diplomatic Arrivals Hangar

“I _knew_ it.”

Padmé strides in like a storm, handmaidens billowing forward to grab both men by an arm while others follow, bearing bundles of cloth.

“Senator Amidala—”

“No excuses, Obi-Wan Kenobi. I won’t hear them.”

The women move. Obi-Wan follows the tug with a dry look in Anakin’s direction. He’s so bright in the Force as he greets the Senator with a cheerful “Padmé!” it’s almost difficult to watch.

“I’ve never met two more stubborn men in my _life_ ,” she continues, sighing fondly. They haven’t even made it out of the docking area and, judging by their abrupt redirection to a different, Nabooian ship, she’s planned for that too. “You are _not_ meeting the Jedi Council looking like that.”

“Our robes are perfectly serviceable.” Obi-Wan feels the need to defend himself as he’s dragged bodily up the ramp into the Senator’s private starship.

“For running through the dark corners of the galaxy, maybe,” she counters with a sweep of an arm — covered today in shining silver fabric — that results in Obi-Wan being redirected behind a large, freestanding screen already set in the main room. “Not for your official reunion.”

Anakin wrinkles his nose. “It’s not a _reunion_ —”

“Call it what you want, I’m not letting you set foot in that place looking like anything less than the _foreign dignitaries_ you are. Clothes off, Ani.”

“Well if you _insist_ —”

“I assure you I am _entirely_ capable, my good lady,” Obi-Wan blusters less willingly, abruptly leading one of the handmaidens out from behind his screen, one hand firmly but gently keeping her at an arm’s length as his other clutches the edge of a threadbare brown robe tightly against his chest.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Master,” Anakin calls out, grinning as he finishes flinging off his outer robe in record time. “It’s not every day we have beautiful women demanding we strip~”

“ _Force help me._ ”

“Clothes. Off,” Padmé cuts in, and Obi-Wan turns on his heel to move behind the screen again. “We’re on a tight schedule, gentlemen.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Obi-Wan mutters as his robe swings into place over top of the screen. “And will we be informed of this schedule, Senator?” he asks a little louder.

Anakin’s joyful laughter fills the large room, as his shirt follows his robe into a pile on the floor. He seems hardly self-conscious beyond the carefully maintained leather glove covering his mechano-arm. The handmaidens, thankfully, seem to know to leave well enough alone.

Padmé narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything Anakin interjects with a cheeky, “Like what you see, Senator?”

She doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s a near thing. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time to _properly_ clean up, in spite of my encouragement to arrive sooner,” she pointedly begins, drawing herself up with the regal bearing of a queen presiding over court, “so that leaves a quick freshening up here. Ani, let Moteé tame the mop on your head—”

“Hey!”

“Obi-Wan, Rabé has a beard trimmer for you—”

“Ah, how thoughtful—”

“Don’t listen to her, Master!”

“Anakin.” Exasperation and fondness slip into the word as easily as it crosses their bond.

“It’s a trap—she doesn’t even _like_ your beard!”

“Pants, Ani,” Padmé commands with a crisp gesture that looks almost like she’s trying to fling them at him with the Force. Anakin jerks back, half expecting the clothes to attack him, but quickly calls them over himself with an affronted look shot her way. “As I was saying,” she pointedly continues, turning back towards the screen as a worn shirt and pair of pants are hastily tossed over top alongside the robes, “please consider the trimmer a gift. It will be transferred along with the supplies to your ship during your meeting.”

“Supplies?” Obi-Wan’s voice drifts past the elaborate paper dividing him from the rest of the room.

“I can only guess as to how long the Jedi Council will keep you—”

“Senator Amidala—”

“—so I arranged a late dinner for us all—”

“ _Padmé_.” Obi-Wan strides back into the room at large, trying to adjust a swathe of dark grey cloth around his shoulders, “What. Supplies?”

Her smile is blinding. “A gift.”

“You _know_ we cannot accept—”

“Between friends,” she patiently continues, laying her hands ceremoniously over her heart. “My family… to yours.”

Anakin steps out of reach of Moteé’s comb to gather Padmé’s now outstretched hands into his own. “We accept!”

“ _Anakin_.” One of the handmaidens - Sabé? Rabé? Obi-Wan has, once again, completely lost track—primly removes the cloth he’s pretty sure is supposed to be a cape from his hands to fiddle it into place in the midst of his complete exasperation.

“ _Obi-Wan_ ,” Anakin mimics with a quick glance in his direction before bending to press a kiss to Padmé’s hands. “We accept,” he repeats, straightening again, his smile warm and easy this time. “Thank you.”

She beams back, the very picture of magnanimity in a silvery dress and gauzy white over-robes. “It’s the least I could do.”

Obi-Wan gives a soft, too-fond sigh, and politely accepts the warm hand towel handed to him by whomever is not fixing his cape. “It’s only Nabooian?” He presses the cloth to his face with more pleasure than the small luxury should wholly deserve.

“Of course,” Padmé murmurs with an amused look for Anakin as he’s dragged back into Moteé’s clutches. When she turns back to Obi-Wan her hands fold politely in front of her again, but the abiding affection shown to Anakin envelops the older man just as easily. “I have _some_ experience with these things, you know.”

### The Present: Jedi Temple, Main Hall

“I see we’ve been expected.”

Anakin snaps out of distracted curiosity with a hand instinctively on his lightsaber before he registers what sparked the amused commentary. Some distance ahead a padawan darts behind a pillar, their presence winking out in the Force in a game attempt to go unnoticed by the Councilors whose gazes turn with Obi-Wan’s words. No one slows, though the nearest guard closes some of the distance between them again. Anakin’s tempted to make a face at the blank mask dispassionately waiting for him to relax his grip, but his master’s gentle wave of calm shifts the action to a roll of his eyes instead.

“Can you blame them?” he quips, grinning broadly at the older man. “We’re probably the most exciting thing to happen around here in _years_.”

Obi-Wan gives him a wry look. “To their benefit, I am certain. As I recall, the last time I would have called the Temple lively was during the war.”

“Well, at least it wasn’t _boring_ ,” Anakin shoots back, falling into the banter in spite of the procession doing its level best to remain stately around them.

“As always, you have an interesting definition of that word, Dear One.”

Oooh, that was definitely a twitch.

Anakin arches an eyebrow at the playful words, barely stifling a chuckle when Obi-Wan echoes the look back to him. And here he’d expected more _restraint_. Apparently, he’s not the only one enjoying rattling their escorts a bit.

Well, then.

“You _like_ my definitions, Master~” he teases with a smirk, sidling up closer as they wind through the broad, empty hallways.

“Everyone should have already removed themselves from this hall,” Mace cuts in before Obi-Wan can answer, his need to forestall any more intimate banter apparently overcoming his need to avoid small talk.

Anakin grins, a sense of victory washing over their bond.

Obi-Wan just shakes his head lightly. “We aren’t contagious, you know,” he answers Windu directly, though he doesn’t quite keep the amusement out of his voice.

“ _That_ , I am entirely unwilling to debate, Kenobi.”

The words are flat, but Obi-Wan chuckles. He knows Mace somewhat better than Anakin’s affronted confusion allows for.

“We’re not a _disease_ ,” Anakin nevertheless mutters.

Mace glances over his shoulder as if to ask for clarification.

“Be that as it may, Councilor,” Obi-Wan cuts in before Anakin has a chance to repeat himself, louder and with more Force, “I wouldn’t mind spending time with their questions as well as the Council’s.”

“Yes, we have heard tell of such… willingness to engage with Force Sensitive youths,” Stass cuts in with nary a blink.

Insult knifes through the bond so swiftly Obi-Wan physically lays a hand on Anakin’s arm to forestall his words.

< _Master!_ >

< She is just probing for reactions. >

“We would appreciate your concern far more if said youths were actively under your care. As it stands, the Order either overlooked or officially rejected their entry years before they came to us. We could hardly turn them or their families away.”

Anakin settles somewhat, maintaining a glare but letting his affront simmer for now.

“It is unwise.”

“Even with the best of intentions,” Stass allows, a touch less blunt than her counterpart, “without the proper instruction from an early age, they—”

“They’ll what?” Obi-Wan’s expression hasn’t changed, but the coolness of his words stops the Councilor short. “Fall?” Beside him, Anakin is silent, shocked that the words were taken right out of his mouth. Obi-Wan raises a thoughtful hand to his beard once more, as if actually considering the merit of this concern, though all it really does is allow time for a swirl of protective anger to drift across their bond. “That seems… unlikely, don’t you think?”

“… I don’t see why it should,” the Tholothian answers, cautious once more.

Obi-Wan gives a soft chuckle, dispelling the tension with a fond glance at his former padawan. “I didn’t think I was _quite_ so poor an instructor,” he quips and suddenly it feels no different than any other joke shared between them.

Anakin shakes his head, laughing in quiet disbelief. “Oh you were _horrible_ —”

“Truly?”

“Are you senile already, old man? Don’t you remember how many times you made me do saber forms?”

“Hours a day and you still managed to lose your lightsaber every other mission.”

“That was _not_ my fault—”

“Neither was the incessant need to run headfirst into danger, I suppose?”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t keep getting yourself into trouble all the time I wouldn’t have to perform death-defying heroics to drag you out of it!”

“Gentlemen,” Mace exasperatedly cuts in, “we’re here.”

### 19 BBY, 9th Month (Several Years Ago): Jedi Temple, Outside The High Council Chambers

There’s a noise, then silence.

Anakin likes to think he has a rather extensive knowledge of all the ways things can blow up and break apart by now, but he’s still trying to figure out the odd snapping sound when one of the large doors opens just enough to let Obi-Wan sweep hurriedly into the hallway.

“Master?”

“Not here.”

Obi-Wan somehow manages to gather him up without a single look, touch, or word. Anakin’s eyebrows fly practically to his hairline, but he _does_ follow, striding quickly after on longer legs to catch up with his somehow-more-stoic-than-normal former master. Habit, perhaps, and habit again that has him prodding lightly along their bond. There’s an urgency to Obi-Wan’s steps he hasn’t felt in months, but it’s the tightly bound silence hemmed in by tall mental guards that makes him frown.

It’s unbecoming, of course, to display so much displeasure. At least as a Jedi and certainly as a Councilor. It’s not as though they _really_ consider him a member of the High Council anyway, though, and he’s mad at them besides. Well, honestly, he was working through that when he stepped out of the meeting. It wasn’t as though they were particularly inclined to listen to him in the first place and they certainly wouldn’t have if he showed half the irritation and anger that had been coiling through him when he left in the first place.

Usually, Obi-Wan isn’t that far behind.

Today he had, in fact, pointedly asked Anakin to wait for him when the Council somewhat informally ended their meeting. It’s been nearly ten whole minutes from then to his former master striding out like… well, Anakin honestly can’t tell _what_ has the man so wound up. Aside from the lack of input from the Force bond, it is extremely rare to feel anything other than gentle placidity radiating into the Force around the older man.

To Anakin, it feels very much like leaving a battlefield.

One they didn’t win.

The door to their rooms slides open, followed by a trill of Artoo’s aggressive beeps that can sometimes be taken as a greeting. Maybe. If you don’t know binary, perhaps. Anakin finds himself involuntarily cracking a smile at the familiar sounds regardless of his master’s current mood.

“Sorry, buddy, High Council business.”

:. Council = anger? .:

“We don’t have the time, Artoo,” Obi-Wan calls back into the living area, already in his room and dragging out a familiar rucksack. “You should grab anything you’re going to miss.”

Anakin blinks. “We have a mission?” He moves, years of experience and adrenaline sending him to his own rucksack and through the few meager belongings a Jedi can be excused for having.

Artoo whirls around with another series of indignant beeps.

“We need to head out immediately.” Obi-Wan, it seems, has far fewer things or more preparedness, because he’s already in the kitchenette collecting a tin from the cupboard. “You too, Artoo.”

“Wait. Is this what you wanted to ask the Council about?” Anakin sticks his head out of his door with a frown, his things flying into his bag blindly behind him.

Strangely, Obi-Wan doesn’t so much as give him a look for the inappropriate use of the Force. He just exhales quietly, staring at the tin in his hands for a moment. Something drifts into the Force then, indistinguishable even to the Chosen One, and with Kenobi’s shields still so firmly in place not even a clue passes between them as to why the tension suddenly eases. Weird, but not _entirely_ new.

“I… yes, Anakin, it has to do with what I stayed to discuss with them.”

It’s the truth, but not all of it. Anakin knows the former because they’ve had this discussion before and Obi-Wan Kenobi keeps his word— _especially_ with his former padawan. The latter, though, he’s less sure of. Honestly, Obi-Wan has always been better with the subtleties of language and capable of bending the truth far more easily than a Jedi should be comfortable with. Still, Anakin _does_ trust his old master, so the bag flies to his waiting hand and he steps into the common area again.

“Then let’s go.”

Obi-Wan looks startled at first, then fond. It’s all smoothed over in a split second, though, and then he spares only another moment scanning the room again. “All right,” he agrees with a determined nod, gesturing to the droid spinning in a spot just to Anakin’s left. “Artoo, your astrogation maps are recent?”

More indignant beeps are his answer, because, really, he needs to ask?

Kenobi cracks a small smirk at this and shakes his head, finally raising his eyes to catch Anakin’s gaze for the first time since he marched out of the meeting like, well, a man on a mission, apparently. “Your ship is ready?”

Anakin balks a bit at that, surprised and a little, well, intrigued. “ _My_ ship?”

But Obi-Wan has already turned for the door, leaving him to either stand dumbly or follow after. Of course he follows, Artoo chirping at his heels.

“Yes, your ship.”

Okay, screw intrigue, now he’s suspicious. “Not _your_ ship?”

“Yes, Anakin, that is generally what I mean by ‘your’ ship.”

“But we usually use yours for longer trips?”

“Yes, usually.”

“But not this time.”

“No, I suspect we’ll need something a little more discreet.”

Anakin stops.

“Master.”

Artoo yelps, stopping just short of rolling straight into Anakin’s leg.

“We don’t have the time, Dear One,” Obi-Wan announces with a frown, pausing just long enough to make sure Anakin is still following him.

It’s not fair, and clearly desperate, but Anakin can hardly be mad. “I’m piloting,” he bargains instead, jogging after to catch up with Kenobi’s swift pace.

“Of course.”

Alarm bells should probably be ringing by now, Anakin belatedly realizes. Fortunately, Artoo takes on the role with _gusto_. The screeching droid, apparently, is enough to finally derail Obi-Wan’s plan, but only in a way that involves dragging them down a nearby corridor and making the gesture for radio silence in the process.

How a droid without a face can emote is unclear, but Artoo is nevertheless confused and obviously concerned by this response. He is, however, thankfully silent as well.

“ _Master_ ,” Anakin begins, cautious, eyes narrowed but voice low.

“I will explain.” The promise is the first thing out of Obi-Wan’s mouth. “The moment we are off planet, I _will_ explain, Anakin, however time, and _subtlety_ , are of the essence, so if you don’t mind…”

“The Council isn’t going to like this, are they?”

“No, I rather suspect they won’t.”

Anakin rolls his eyes with purposeful exaggeration. “Kriff, Master, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Let’s go, Artoo. We’ve got a High Council to piss off,” he whispers with a broad grin. Artoo dutifully logs his complaints, but really, who knows what they’ll get themselves into without him?

And just like that, they’re sneaking through the Temple like they’re trying to escape a Separatist prison.

It’s not nearly as strange as it probably should be. Anakin certainly has practice sneaking out of the Temple, but it’s usually through a door rather than the hanger, and previously it involved avoiding the man briskly ushering them silently through small side hallways. For anyone else, it would be humbling to realize how many favored escape routes their master had in fact known and favored themselves, but Anakin feels only another layer of abiding _trust_.

He knows Obi-Wan can vanish into the Force as easily as any Shadow because he’s seen it before. He knows his master can walk completely silently using only the softest brush of the Force because the man had tried—in vain—to teach it to him during one of their many death-defying trips behind enemy lines. He knows the man has a near encyclopedic knowledge of, well, most things, really, but especially any building layouts he’s had the time to examine.

Anakin knows all of these things, but seeing it in action, in the Jedi Temple? This is something else entirely. A familiar sense of awe washes over him, no longer tinged with the uncertainty and jealousy of his padawan years, but now with the determination and fondness of knowing this incredible, picture-perfect Jedi Master fully expects Anakin to cover his back in any situation. Even, apparently, something bound to piss off the rest of the Jedi High Council.

So he tiptoes faster, keeping his footsteps quiet the mundane way as he stretches his senses out into the Force. Obi-Wan cedes the lead to him as they near the hangar, shifting half a step behind to watch their backs. Anakin adjusts their path with short gestures, keeping his gaze forward for anyone or anything he can’t catch with the walking meditation.

Several tense minutes pass before he holds a hand up and ushers them quickly through a doorway, then immediately to the right and behind the partially covered remains of a broken engine. The hangar at last, but—

Oh.

Obi-Wan hasn’t stopped keeping a sharp gaze on the entrance to their hiding area and beyond to the small fleet of ships currently being maintained by a series of droids, technicians and Jedi. It’s a bustling facility that normally shouldn’t demand quite so much subterfuge, but Obi-Wan’s apparent paranoia is contagious. Also, Obi-Wan’s ship is flashy, obvious, and smack in the middle of the bay.

The Force bond remains silent, but Anakin can practically feel the observation anyway. He gives a sly smirk and roll of his eyes before catching Artoo’s attention with a small gesture. The droid scoots back, whistling a soft inquiry.

Anakin nods.

There are still some technicians in the area near Anakin’s frigate, but the they’ve long since learned to avoid working on it, so the matter of avoiding them is a far easier task. Anakin silently removes a wall panel with a gentle pull of the Force, and Artoo immediately snakes a long cable inside. A moment slips by as the droid shifts around for the closest connection, but a soft beep of success sounds a moment later. Anakin glances over just as Obi-Wan looks to him, flashing a grin at his former master as irregular updates go out to the various technicians. One by one they glance at a board, tap an earpiece, or inquire with a nearby droid before drifting away to a newly assigned task.

Something like pride slips into the Force.

Getting into the small frigate is laughably easy after that. Anakin greets her with a friendly tap of the hull as they enter, Artoo chirping quietly behind him. Obi-Wan follows after, tucking Anakin’s abandoned sack next to his under a bench out of sheer habit, then picks up his pace to slide into the copilot’s seat just as Anakin finishes buckling in.

“So.” A beat of silence, broken only by the tap of buttons lighting up informational panels. “Where to?”

“Let’s get off this planet first, shall we?” Obi-Wan hums, brushing a hand contemplatively over his beard as he glances over the controls of this particular ship.

Anakin remembers a bit too late that he hasn’t exactly taken his old master out for a spin in this one yet, but he’s not particularly surprised to see the man begin his part of the launch sequence after a moment’s observation. He does, however, turn more completely towards one of his readouts when he catches a particular input.

“You’re requesting launch priority?”

“No use panicking the rest of the hangar.”

“With your _Council_ clearance? Seriously?”

“Might as well—”

“Are you _trying_ to alert them?” Anakin hisses, tossing the slow, quiet startup plan aside for just booting the whole thing at once since, apparently, his master went crazy at some point.

“Once we hit hyperspace it should hardly matter,” Obi-Wan calmly points out, glancing over his own readouts and swiftly adjusting his launch prep to match Anakin’s. It doesn’t really take two people, but with both used to flying on their own so frequently, tandem remains the best compromise.

“You are _so_ lucky I actually worked on the hyperdrive last week.”

“I would expect no less, of course.”

They’re almost out of the hangar bay before someone’s comm goes off.

Artoo trills. Anakin glances to the side. Obi-Wan is tense, but moving—a flick of a switch here, a tap of input there—in blithe avoidance of the pinging noise radiating from his hip. A new light blooms on the console a minute later. The comm is still beeping when another sound, this one Coruscant Traffic Control, overrides the speaker system. He quirks an eyebrow and answers, tossing back the same test flight route he’d taken her on a few short days ago.

Obi-Wan finally seems to register the inquiry and reaches for his belt as the report ends, tapping the comm silent and resuming his tasks.

Artoo chirps.

“Yes, Artoo, I heard it,” Obi-Wan murmurs.

Artoo beeps.

“Well I’m sure there’s a reason,” Anakin mutters, distracted.

An angrier sequence of beeps and a whirr as Artoo suddenly slams into the back of the pilot seat, screeching for all his circuits can muster.

“Artoo!”

“Honestly, what’s gotten into—”

“Master Yoda?!”

There’s a tension - barely visible in the set of Obi-Wan’s jaw and the faint crease of still forming crow’s feet—and not quite all of it slips in the Force a moment later. “… Yes.”

Any other time, Anakin would be proud of himself for even noticing.

“You’re ghosting _Yoda_.”

“So it would seem.”

Artoo winds up again, indignant with Anakin for ignoring him and Obi-Wan for his apparent subterfuge. The creeping concern from before crashes and spills over, whirling Anakin in his seat—or at least it would have if not for the jerk of his harness keeping him firmly in place. The wide-eyed look he throws Obi-Wan amidst Artoo’s shrieking should be enough, but still he adds “Master?!”

Obi-Wan tightens his grip on the controls and narrows his gaze, keeping it pointedly forward as they streak up through the atmosphere. “I do recall mentioning the Council would take exception.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t—” A second, urgent chime bursts from Anakin’s own still-unsilenced comm.

.: Mace Windu? :.

“Yes, thank you, Artoo, I _know_ ,” Anakin snaps, swinging his attention back around to his own controls in time to adjust their course sharply upward amidst all of the sudden requests for their attention. “Sith Hells, Obi-Wan, I don’t think Master Windu has _ever_ willingly called me. The man _hates_ me—”

“Jedi do not hate—”

“Oh, like you get a say!” This, at least, drags an affronted look from Obi-Wan. “And for that matter, how about that explanation? What did you _do_? I _told you_ you were going to get their attention! Did you—were you _trying_ to make sure they knew? What the _kark_!”

The angry horns of a narrowly missed ship joins the cacophony in the cockpit.

“Did you _not_ want to pilot?!”

“I have it under control!”

“That’s what you always say just before you crash—”

“Just let me drive and stop avoiding the question!”

“Oh, you noticed, hm?”

The venomous look Anakin throws askance is only slightly mitigated by a swift move to finally silence his own comm.

Obi-Wan sighs and the quiet exhaustion that seeps out is enough to dim the droid’s panicked screeching back to a more concerned but no less vulgar series of beeps. “We… had a disagreement.”

Anakin’s gaze narrows suspiciously. He flicks it back and forth between his former master and the viewport before answering, just as suspiciously, “You’ve had disagreements before.”

“Yes, well, this was… fairly substantial—”

“I guessed—”

“… involved you…”

“Yeah, thanks, got that too.”

“… and, I’m afraid, ultimately irreconcilable.”

Silence breaks over the small frigate for the first time since they boarded.

Anakin processes.

Artoo processes faster, splitting the silence with alarmed chirps all over again.

“You—you’re—I—we—?”  
  
“Yes, Anakin.”

He twists in his chair, blue eyes disbelievingly wide. “Are you Fall—are we Falling?!”


	2. In Which Our Boys Miss A Perfectly Good Chance To Hook Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waifu Wine Pairing: "Bulletproof Picasso" by Train
> 
> Based on some feedback, I’ve added a running Timeline at the end of the chapter, to hopefully clear some things up. Going forward, we’ll try to limit the flashbacks to the entire chapter instead of kind of jumping around the entire timeline as a whole. That means each chapter is going to be out of chronological order, but generally //within// each chapter it should all happen in order. 
> 
> Regarding THIS chapter: Ultimately, it’s staying as is. The overall theme remains the same, which is that Obi-Wan and Anakin have been working through some shit for a while now, it’s just how they approach these conversations that a) change over time and b) largely involves the deepening of their Force bond.
> 
> ** Updated: 03/01/2020

### 19 BBY, 9th Month: Skies of Coruscant

“What? No!” Obi-Wan swings his attention away from the ship controls to stare wide-eyed at his partner in crime. “ _Anakin_ —”

“What? You _just_ said—”

“That we’re _leaving_ , not—”

“Right, by sneaking around and absconding with your former padawan, so _logically_ —”

Artoo’s shrill beeping cuts in again and Anakin absently jerks on the controls in time to get them back on course.

“Force help me,” Obi-Wan mutters, sinking back in his chair with a hand over his face.

“And anyway, you _did_ say the Council wasn’t going to like this.”

“Yes, well, there’s leaving the Order and then there’s _Falling_ , I can’t believe—Anakin, _please_ tell me you don’t think I’m _actually_ Falling.”

“… Well, how am I supposed to know?”

“You would _know_ , Anakin. You’ve _met_ Sith.”

“Yeah, but you’re not Sith.” The statement seems to turn into a universal constant just by the way Anakin says it.

Obi-Wan exhales slowly, sitting up and gathering himself back together in the process.

“That doesn’t mean I’m incapable of it.”

“Wait, so, we _are_ falling?”

“No one is falling!”

Artoo trills in an irritated circle and goes to plug himself into a wall until the humans sort themselves out or they land somewhere, whichever comes first.

“… And I’m becoming increasingly concerned that you keep including yourself in that assumption,” Obi-Wan adds with a glance after the retreating droid.

Anakin just shrugs. “Well, you included me.”

“Yes, in _leaving_ —”

“Which you _still_ haven’t explained.”

“Entirely your own fault. I was—rightfully, I might add—concerned by the implication you both thought I was falling _and_ didn’t seem intent on doing anything about it.”

The viewport tints as they rise past the atmosphere, scattering light over Anakin’s furrowed brow and the distracted glances he continues to split between the controls and his runaway master. He gives an awkward half-shrug and says only, “Well, you’re Obi-Wan.”

There’s a pause.

“… And…?” said man attempts to helpfully prompt from the co-pilot’s chair.

“… And if you were falling it was probably for a good reason?”

“Anakin, _every_ Jedi who has ever fallen to the Dark Side has believed they had a ‘good reason’. You _know_ that, no matter what your history instructors had to say about it.”

“Yeah, well…I just—I don’t know what _else_ you expect me to do about it,” Anakin obstinately continues.

“Condemnation? Reasoning? Bargaining? Force, I think I would have preferred a lightsaber through the chest over—”

“What? _Master!_ ” The look Anakin throws him is so purely aghast, Obi-Wan feels a pang of sympathy and regret for even bringing it up at all.

“… Why don’t we table this for now,” he quickly offers, along with a gentle brush of affection to their bond. “It looks like we’re out far enough for the jump.”

Anakin gives a tight nod, the muscles of his jaw holding the tension for a moment longer until an awkward jumble of emotion flushes partway into the bond before he can funnel it all into the Force. A rough exhale and a stubbornly unapologetic glance greets Obi-Wan’s partial wince at the ungraceful manhandling of their Force bond. Well, he supposes he does somewhat deserve it, for once. So he lets slip some of his shielding just far enough to aid in clearing things up a bit more and that seems to be the trick to getting the younger man to relax again.

After something that feels a bit like hesitation brushes across the bond, a fuller warmth rushes over, suffusing it in fondness and trust all over again. Actually, Obi-Wan notes, he has been keeping it rather closed off today. It’s no real surprise to find Anakin finally calming down only once he has access to it once more.

It is, after all, half the reason they’re in this mess.

“… So you still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Anakin eventually points out.

The brat has the gall to look _smug_ when Obi-Wan realizes he’s spent some time staring fondly rather than doing…well, just about anything helpful. He turns back to the console with a huff, silently glad of the chuckle that follows, no matter the embarrassment it causes him. Unfortunately, the console holds no recommendations for that particular quandary.

“Honestly, it doesn’t matter so long as we’re untraceable while we do it.”

“Right. I figured from all the hyperspace talk.” Anakin’s amusement is hardly being withheld from either bond or voice by now.

Obi-Wan shoots him a look.

His pilot has shifted to leaning back on his elbow, and just arches an eyebrow in return.

The communications console lights up again, this time alternating between Coruscant Traffic Control and Council encryption tags.

“Unless you want to re-live being stuck in hyperspace until you run out of fuel, I’m _going_ to need a destination, Master.”

Force help him; it takes all of Obi-Wan’s considerable willpower not to roll his eyes at his companion’s insufferable sense of timing. “I didn’t exactly have one in _mind_ , Anakin.”

“So we just flipped off the Council and ran away without a plan.” Anakin’s grin is shit-eating.

“… I am not blind to where a considerable number of your habits originated,” Obi-Wan rather stiffly answers.

“Likewise. Still don’t have a target, though.”

Traffic Control switches to a text based command to change course and Artoo whirrs a sigh as he manually adjusts the thrusters. The Jedi Council continues to blink its request for audio connection immediately. It’s not a pressure Obi-Wan particularly enjoys, but he knows he’s brought it on himself with how he’s handled this conversation and, well, the entirety of this situation since the rather disastrous meeting earlier.

“Just…aim for somewhere in the Outer Rim.”

“That’s a pretty big spread, you know.”

“ _Anakin_.”

The encryption protocol switches to a personal one as the Jedi Council request finally hangs up.

“ _Obi-Wan_.”

Another comm request queues.

“Oh, just open the navigation chart and let the Force choose.”

“You should have just said so, Master~” Anakin perks up immediately, cancelling the call requests and selecting a couple paths in rapid succession before transferring them back to Artoo. Obi-Wan is a little surprised to find the old trick from his padawan’s training years to still be so helpful, but affection overwhelms the surprise pretty quickly.

.: Timing = Late. Course = Inefficient. :.

“Yeah, that’s the plan, Artoo.”

The droid dutifully gives his impression of Obi-Wan’s great plan, but most of his grousing is, per usual, entirely lost on a Jedi Master who has long since refused to learn how to curse in Binary.

### 19 BBY, 1st Month: Mandalore, Sundari Palace, Guest Accommodations

“I’m surprised you didn’t stay with the _Duchess_.”

Obi-Wan tries to ignore the extraordinary levels of petulance saturating every word and just closes the ornate door behind him.

“One would think successfully pulling off a secret mission to rescue a damsel in distress would _improve_ your mood.” Satine, pacifist that she is, will probably only _verbally_ eviscerate him for the implication, but at this point he’s just glad she’s still alive to do so.

Anakin’s expression grows stormy, but he doesn’t move from his indecent sprawl over a large chair somehow barely visible beneath the bulk of an exhausted Jedi Knight missing half his usual robes. “Maybe if I didn’t have to trick you into telling me about it in the first place, I might be.”

Inhale calm. Exhale troubles. Obi-Wan sits with more aplomb, but it’s difficult not to sink into the adjacent couch without showing some measure of his utter exhaustion. “I already told you—”

“I’m not a youngling, Obi-Wan, I can read between the lines,” Anakin snaps, brooding and defensive.

Obi-Wan might not be too old for this yet, but Force help him he’s _tired_. “And what, exactly, have I been remiss in telling you since—”

“Oh I don’t know, _everything_?”

“Surely that would be too lengthy to recount.”

Anakin shifts just enough to a better angle for aiming a proper glare at his former master. “You know what I mean.”

“I assure you I do not.” It’s a testament to the day they’ve had that he doesn’t try for anything more than that.

“Obi-Wan.” Anakin cuts himself off with an irritable push into a more correct sitting position. Their bond, silent and dark since the thrill of victory faded, creaks under the weight of a building storm. “You think I don’t understand _why_ you wanted my ship?”

“Given the content of this conversation so far, I’m not sure that you _do_ ,” Obi-Wan answers bluntly. Perhaps a little too bluntly for the moment, but it’s been _four years_ of death, destruction, mayhem, and loss—the past 48 hours alone more trying than most of the rest. Surely he can be forgiven a moment’s weakness?

Of course, this is Anakin, so only a vague sense of his broken trust slips into the bond before his shields slam even higher and stronger than before.

“One untraceable junker for a one-way trip.”

“What? Anakin you can’t _possibly_ think—”

“Can’t think _what_ , exactly?” Anakin hisses, blue gaze sharp and condemning. “Don’t pretend I wasn’t here the last time. One message from her and you go rushing off without even _telling me_? You _promised_!”

The bond pulls taut, the tall shields shudder and crack, and a thundering rush of betrayal-hurt-anger floods the link as Anakin lurches to his feet.

“No more secrets, right? Well, I haven’t kept _any_ and here you were, you were—”

“Trying to save a _friend_ , Anakin!”

“Oh, bantha shit! You should have told me!” Anakin steps closer, the smoke and sweat and dirt of battle suffocating in the small space between them. “Lies of omission—that’s what _you_ called Padmé! Well, what am I supposed to call _this_?” The sweep of his arm is all-encompassing and damning.

“A _mess_ ,” Obi-Wan cuts in as he stands to meet the wild force of nature that is Anakin Skywalker. It’s never easy, but even more difficult now with the torrents of emotion battering his own worn defenses, trying to drag him into the whirlpool. “A mess,” he repeats, pressing for calm as he tries to exude the sensation back to his former padawan with an extended hand, “… I had desperately hoped to keep you out of, Dear One.”

The anger wavers, but it’s quickly overrun by fear and betrayal all over again. Anakin takes a hesitant step back, jerking his head side to side. “Don’t.” He takes a sharp breath.

“Ana—”

“You _told me_ about her, Obi-Wan.”

“A story,” Obi-Wan insists, stepping carefully closer, “from my less-than-reputable padawan years.” He hesitates, but eventually lowers his hand, trying to gather his feelings to himself rather than attempt to force a peace he doesn’t entirely feel on to Anakin as well.

It doesn’t help the churn of guilt-loathing-fear, but it doesn’t make it worse, either.

“…the first time we were here, you told her…” Anakin shakes his head again, exhaling roughly and a jumble of emotions tumbles equally into the bond and the Force. “You said you would leave m—leave the Order for her.”

“I made that offer _years ago_ —”

“Yeah, and you re-upped it the _last_ time we came here!”

“I did _not_.”

“Which was real rich, you know, making me break up with _my_ —with Padmé when _you_ were apparently a holocall away from leaving—”

“But. I. Didn’t.”

Fear-anger-betrayal rips through the bond and cuts violently into the Force between them.

“You were never even going to _tell_ me! You don’t think I deserved at least _that_ much? You were just going to—to run off with _my_ ship because of _the same_ attachment _you_ called dangerous when I—”

“I did _not_! Anakin! I. Chose. To. Stay!”

Something rattles.

“You chose to _leave_!” Lights flicker ominously. “You always choose _everyone else_! The perfect Jedi Master, always telling me to do better, to follow the Council’s suggestions, everything at an arm’s length, isn’t it? Until the second you know they won’t listen and then you—you just _leave_! I thought at least _the Order_ meant something to you!”

“Oh, fuck the Order!”

The torrent of emotion vanishes with a crash and a shower of sparks.

Obi-Wan flinches back, instinctively raising a hand with a glance above to witness the death throes of the overhead lights just before the entire room falls into twilight.

The sudden, deafening silence eventually drags his gaze back down and around, slowly taking in the carnage in a kind of numb shock. A smattering of flimsiplast sheets lie strewn in a strange spiral around them. The chair cushions look as though someone slashed a knife straight through them. Behind him, the couch lists towards one side, pieces of broken metal legs caught under the rest of its weight. His survey ends where it began: meeting Anakin’s equally dumbstruck look with little more than a stunned blink.

A minute passes in absolute silence.

“… I…” Anakin clears his throat and straightens, raising his hands in open surrender. “I swear the furniture wasn’t me.”

Obi-Wan draws a slow breath and tries to ignore the growing flicker of amusement from the far end of the bond. “…Well then.” It gets more difficult when Anakin bites his lip to stifle the laughter practically radiating into the Force already. “Clearly, neither of us is in the best state for this discussion right now.”

“Clearly.”

“Why don’t we-”

“Obi-Wan, I swear if you tell me to go meditate right now—”

“…I was going to say ‘find some alcohol’,” the Jedi Master dryly finishes.

They share a long look, dimly lit by the fading light from an uncovered window.

Obi-Wan quirks an eyebrow and the silence finally surrenders to Anakin’s disbelieving laughter.

“Sith Hells, that sounds _amazing_.”

Another glance around the destroyed room prompts Obi-Wan to add, “I know a place in the city.”

“Of course you do.”

* * *

  
“In all seriousness, though,” Anakin says, eagerly swiping another shot from the bar with only a look askance to accompany the motion, “why _didn’t_ you stay with her?”

Obi-Wan sighs, taking the opportunity to knock back a disturbingly bright blue shot before answering. It’s a bit sour, but three in is enough to at least start a buzz, so he gestures for another round, mostly because Anakin is already leaning pretty heavily against the bar rather than any support Obi-Wan needs. He won’t lie, though: it’s certainly helpful.

“You were _there_ for the family reunion, Anakin.”

The younger man just looks perplexed. “Well, yeah. Bo’s pretty awesome, but she doesn’t really seem your type, Master.”

Obi-Wan…honestly can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a joke, and twists in his seat to get a better view for the judgement. A slight quirk of Anakin’s lips gives him away and shortly after he’s chuckling into the curve of his glove. Obi-Wan shakes his head, and then there’s another set of four oddly-colored shots on the bar in front of them. Hole-in-the-wall drinking establishments are usually his preference anyway, but Mandalore has a level of sheer efficiency in getting people completely wasted that is really quite impressive.

“Hilarious,” he dryly offers, sliding one of the glasses towards the snickering Knight. “It didn’t actually change all that much after you left, however. I… _attempted_ to mediate.” Anakin snorts his opinion of that scenario and, honestly, Obi-Wan has to agree. He picks up his new glass, vaguely inspecting the hot pink contents. “It went about as well as you might imagine, so I excused myself.”

“I’m honestly shocked you left them _alone_.”

“I like to think we all reached an understanding.”

Anakin raises his eyebrows.

“You _know_ what I mean. Honestly.” The pink shot is harder than anticipated, but that, too, is welcome.

Five shots later and Obi-Wan starts to regret his decisions.

Anakin has long since slumped over the bar in the blearily defensive curl of drunks the galaxy over. Lacking his cloak—Obi-Wan is pretty sure they lost it at some point between appropriating armor for their undercover rescue and having said armor half-blown off amidst a blur of firefights—the younger Jedi doesn’t seem any different from the rest of the bar. Surely, just another young Mandalorian caught up in the seemingly endless conflict around them.

Except for the tears.

And, all right, Obi-Wan is certainly _not_ going to chastise Anakin for that. He’s seen plenty of people cry from old and respectable down to snot-nosed and pathetic. Anakin is heavily leaning towards the latter edge of that spectrum, but, well, it’s not like he doesn’t _deserve_ the release. Obi-Wan learned long ago that his padawan was not the best with meditation and barring being able to fix something or spar until he passes out, crying is pretty much the only thing left.

The problem is Obi-Wan _still_ has very little idea of how to handle a crying person, let alone _this_ one.

“I just—” A sniff. Anakin turns his face against his forearm, trying to scrub the tears surreptitiously. It would be cute if it wasn’t so heartbreaking. “You _already_ made me break up with her and I thought…I thought at least—”

“I did _not_ tell you to break up.” The words run into each other a bit more than he intends and Obi-Wan briefly considers how they expect to get back to the palace at this point, but it’s quickly overrun by the need to correct this misconception once and for all. “I told you it was… it was a bad idea. And it was. Look at _this_ mess.”

Anakin twists on his arms, rolling slightly to peek back over with a pathetic whine that sounds something like, “You said…shouldn’ be together. S’ I told her and she _dumped me_.”

Obi-Wan sets his glass down. It lands a little too roughly on the counter. He’d be more concerned, but it takes more concentration than it should to lean forward far enough to place a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “You…never told me that.”

“Yeah, well.” A messy curl of emotion slides across the Force between them and Anakin sags into the touch, rubbing at his eyes again. “…was I s’posed to do? Cry about…about…losing my…secret girl?”

It’s that moment that Obi-Wan realizes how completely unqualified he is for this. It is, however, also the exact moment he decides he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what he’s qualified to do and uses his grip on Anakin’s shoulder to drag him into a one-armed hug. It’s unwieldy; they’re both tipsy and the barstools aren’t particularly close, but Anakin sinks into the hold without reserve.

“You can tell me. You can always…tell me,” Obi-Wan murmurs, blinking his own suddenly watery eyes.

“How was I going to?!” Anakin’s voice is raised, but his words are muffled by Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “ _You_ told me—you said it was for the best!”

“I am…I am so sorry, Dear One.”

Anakin hiccups and buries his face further into the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck, mechano-arm catching the edge of Obi-Wan’s shirt and clamping down tightly to keep the two of them together. It’s a desperate hold echoing the fear swirling through the Force around them. “I thought…I thought I was going to lose you too.”

“Oh, Anakin—”

“Don’t tell me I’m _WRONG_!”

It’s sloppy and loud, and Obi-Wan has to quickly grab on to the bar to balance against Anakin’s sudden forward lurch. “…Anakin,” he tries again, a little gruffly, because he’s a bit too inebriated to really control himself as well as he might otherwise try, “…whatever I _said_ , I didn’t… actually leave—”

“You were going to! I could…” Anakin’s sniffles are broken by another high-strung hiccup. “I could feel it…when you were talking with her.”

Oh, dear.

“Anakin, I—” He’s not entirely certain the swirl of love and fear belongs wholly to Anakin anymore, but there’s a vaguely hysterical thought in the back of his mind that thinks maybe it’s not a bad thing; at least it means Anakin _probably_ isn’t projecting enough to influence the other, potentially more trigger-happy patrons around them.

“Dear One, if _you_ had asked, you have to know I would have followed _you_ …”

This, if anything, only seems to make Anakin curl tighter against him. “You don’t—don’t need to coddle me, Master.” He sniffs and shakes his head, effectively only burrowing deeper. “I know you don’t mean it. I just. I just need—”

“Anakin, I’ve been half a step out of the Order since you were _twelve_ and tried to give me your lightsaber.”

Anakin bolts up so fast, he nearly smacks straight into Obi-Wan’s jaw on the way up. Thankfully, Obi-Wan manages to sway back just in time to avoid damage and some deeply-buried reflex causes Anakin to drag him back before he can topple over entirely. Love-hope-trust spirals down a hastily blown open Force bond and for a long moment the only thing Obi-Wan can remotely register is a pair of teary, wide blue eyes staring at him in awe.

_Sithspit_.

Obi-Wan casts a desperate glance toward the bar and makes a subtle gesture to tug the last of Anakin’s forgotten shots into his hand. He knocks it back with a hard wince, fumbling the shot glass back to the bar top with less than his usual finesse. It’s definitely not the most respectable response from a Jedi Master with a seat on the High Council, but, well, fuck the Council.

* * *

  
He doesn’t know where they are or what time it is, but Obi-Wan is _positive_ it hasn’t been long _enough_.

“…What...is that _noise_?”

A groan to his right indicates Anakin’s slowly waking to the same annoying chime that apparently dragged him to consciousness. It takes a moment of shuffling before the younger man manages to sit up enough to unhook the belligerent comm buzzing at his hip and move it instead to a…nightstand?

Well, at least they made it back to the palace, apparently.

Obi-Wan has no actual recollection of _how_ , but he’s not about to question good fortune.

Then Ahsoka’s image pops into place over the small device with an aggravated, “FINALLY!” and he briefly considers burying his head under the pillow again.

“Agh, lower the volume, Snips.” Anakin cringes back from her load harrumph that follows, but nevertheless manages to swing his legs over the side of the bed so he can at least face his padawan upright.

“Well it’s your own fault for not answering the first _five times_ I called!”

Another flinch. Obi-Wan reaches across his bedding to manually lower the volume and receives a grateful look for his efforts.

“—Skyguy, are you even _listening_ to me?”

Oops.

“…Look, ’Soka it’s… been a long… er… day?”

“ _Three days_.”

“Okay.”

She just sighs and leans closer, her expression shifting from frustration to concern and then vaguely suspicious in the short distance. “…Master, are you… _drunk_?”

“No?”

“Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan finally interrupts once he’s straightened up enough to turn the comm towards himself instead, “please excuse him. As he said—it has been a long…few days.” He clears his throat by the end, trying not to be obvious in his search for a glass of water.

“… _Both_ of you?!”

_Karabast_.

Anakin gives him a weak, unapologetic shrug beyond the camera, looking entirely too proud for a man who has just been called out by his own padawan.

“…At the moment, no, _neither_ of us is drunk, Padawan.”

Ahsoka seems to waver for a moment at the implied chastisement, but quickly recovers and straightens again, hands on her hips and glaring. “Hungover then. When you _should_ be at the Temple.”

Anakin snickers.

Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow and says only, “I think I’ll let your master address that. Anakin?”

Their Force bond passes on pieces of their shared headache along with some mirth and then seems to sigh along with Anakin’s apparent surrender to his padawan’s interrogation. “It’s pretty simple, actually.”

“Uh huh.”

“Your Grandmaster got me smashed.”

Obi-Wan decides to try walking then, finding himself far more interested in water or perhaps tea than in attempting to interrupt anymore on Anakin’s behalf. The bond buoys his movement with a gentle hum of contentment. Given his otherwise dehydrated and sore state of being, it’s something of a balm to his nerves that allows him to shuffle through the room largely unaided in his search for something to alleviate a bad case of cotton mouth.

Behind him, the other two trade barbs over the differences between being drunk and being hungover (time, largely), how long they’ve actually been gone (nearly _four_ days now, apparently), and how many times Ahsoka has been bothered by a member of the Council about it (twice).

Wait.

“The Council asked about us?”

“Well… _yeah_ , you did kind of disappear without telling anyone?” Ahsoka says to the room at large. “ _I_ thought you were on another…’secret mission’ or whatever, but then Master Plo started asking and I got worried.” She crosses her arms with a pointed _look_ at the two of them.

“Well, it was _definitely_ a secret,” Anakin unhelpfully offers with an amused glance over his shoulder.

Obi-Wan returns the look in stoic silence.

“Jeez, what am I? Chopped bantha liver?”

Anakin turns back to his comm, taking a second to clear his throat before apologizing with a somewhat raspy, “Sorry, Snips.”

She stares a moment longer and then sighs with a shake of her head. “I’ll tell Master Plo you’ll be in touch. You better have a good story when you get back, though.”

### 19 BBY, 1st Month, Jedi Temple, High Council Chamber

“… A vision.”

Skepticism infuses every word of Mace’s short reply. It’s a viewpoint most of the Council seems to share. Well, aside from Obi-Wan, but the man in question isn’t sitting among the other masters today—nor is he anything other than utterly floored by Anakin’s abrupt proclamation, if their Force bond is anything to go by.

“Yes, Master Windu, a very… _persistent_ one.”

Mace narrows his eyes, no longer focusing on Anakin alone, but doesn’t seem to switch to Obi-Wan either. The holo form of Master Koth, however, looks markedly unimpressed. Obi-Wan doesn’t move a muscle, but the feeling of being stared at from slightly to his right intensifies tenfold. Anakin bites the inside of his cheek to keep his laughter at bay.

“Suffered these visions before, you have,” Yoda thoughtfully comments, infuriatingly neutral as always. Anakin only inclines his head in acknowledgment, reaching out through the bond to poke at Obi-Wan as a distraction to keep himself from looking over.

The rough equivalent of having one’s hand slapped away in startled confusion echoes back.

Mace does that contemplative squint of his again.

“Advised you against following them, this Council has,” Yoda continues, either actually oblivious to the tensions in the room or choosing to ignore them. “Concerning, this is.”

“Yes, Master Yoda,” Anakin intones with an appropriate bob of his head that can be construed as contrite. In actuality, it gives him a moment to correct his amused smirk back to a proper Jedi level of calm. Obi-Wan is radiating utter disbelief across their bond like he has completely forgotten it’s even possible to shield himself anymore and in any other situation Anakin would be teasing the man mercilessly for it.

“And this…Force Vision,” Master Fisto’s hologram says from somewhere off to his left, “… it sent you to Mandalore?”

“Yep!”

Incredulity and confusion swims across the bond. If Anakin didn’t know any better, he would think Obi-Wan had just spun to stare at him, but his former master remains calmly at parade rest, staring into the empty spot between Yoda and Mace as if Anakin isn’t blatantly lying to the Council’s faces right next to him.

“… Quiet, you have been, Master Kenobi,” Yoda notes after a pause. Obi-Wan, to his credit, merely shifts his attention to the wizened master. In the bond, Anakin has the distinct impression of a prey animal still spooked by a nearby threat. “Your input on this, the Council requires. A history with Mandalore, you have. A message, you received before leaving, did you not?”

“Yes, Masters.” There’s no hesitation in the response, and as Obi-Wan finally glances over at his former padawan the impression of waiting for an attack is rapidly exchanged for the familiar whirr Anakin has learned to associate with the swift re-configuring of battle plans. “I fear it may have been mentioning this to him that ultimately made him leave.”

Fascination and awe _may_ be slipping into the bond from Anakin’s end now, but can he really be blamed? Watching The Negotiator in action is rarely something Anakin typically sticks around for. He makes a mental note to do so more often and grins unrepentantly at his former master. “Yes, it was very wrong of me and I should have listened when you said it would be a mess.”

Obi-Wan covers the mental equivalent of a series of question marks with a more acceptable raise of his eyebrows. “You think so, do you?”

Anakin nods along, basking in the sheer amount of surprise slipping into the Force around him. “Oh yes, it really _was_ a mess, after all. Even if we did ultimately get there in time to save the Duchess and keep a Sith Lord from declaring himself Mandalore. _That_ part was rough, and we _definitely_ could have used backup I’m sure the Council would have provided if I hadn’t insisted on dealing with it on my own. Who knows what could have happened if only _one_ Jedi had shown up?”

He doesn’t need the Force bond to know how hard the shot lands, since it’s the first thing that’s been said to draw a physical reaction from Obi-Wan. The man settles back on his heels and crosses his arms with the shift in his stance, gaze softening slightly. Anakin quickly tries to soften the blow with a wave of affection and the suggestion of teasing.

“… While I believe Knight Skywalker could have given a more appropriate briefing,” Obi-Wan drawls, finally relaxing as he turns back to the Council, “I also believe he has a point. Had it not been the both of us I doubt we could have handled the situation properly and had we waited, it’s quite clear Mandalore would be far worse off.”

“The right thing, you believe you did,” Yoda says, tapping his stick against the side of his chair.

“Well, yeah,” Anakin announces with all the brash confidence he’s known for, “I’m a Jedi; that’s what you taught me to do.”

This time, the amusement comes from the other end of the Force bond and Anakin latches on to it in triumph.

### 19 BBY, 9th Month: Hyperspace, The Hydian Way

“… So if we’re not Falling,” Anakin drawls while settling back in his chair, casting his gaze sideways as the familiar white streaks of hyperspace fly past, “why’d we leave?”

How can he make it sound so simple?

Obi-Wan just shakes his head in mild disbelief, finding it increasingly difficult to drag himself into peace now that the adrenaline of the moment is finally behind them. Then again, is he really so surprised? For Anakin it really _had_ been as easy as packing his things and following his master out the door.

Three months ago, it had almost been Anakin half a step behind his own padawan.

A wave of concern washes over Obi-Wan before that particular regret has time to fully sink in to his psyche. He opens his eyes again, not remembering closing them, to find Anakin standing beside his chair, brilliant blue gaze narrowed with worry and a hand on his own forearm. When he wanted to be, Anakin could be rather painfully aware—of himself, of them, of the tiniest things. The endearing reminder at his arm draws Obi-Wan from more somber thoughts with a faint upturn of his lips.

“Ah, I do hope this isn’t becoming a habit of mine,” he announces on a soft laugh and straightens to unbuckle himself.

Anakin just shakes his head, stepping back with a chuckle and a warm swirl of affection in the bond. “You better not be going senile on me already.”

“That would certainly be inconvenient.”

Obi-Wan stands with a stretch and takes in the relative emptiness of the roomy cabin. Apparently catching on to what he hasn’t yet expressed, Anakin makes a short gesture with his hand from where they stand, and a latch against the back wall releases, causing a pair of black mats unroll along the floor. He’s halfway across the room before Obi-Wan can toss him a reprimanding expression.

“Do you want to meditate or not?”

“That was entirely unneeded.”

“Yeah, what are you going to do, tattle to the Council about it?” Anakin unabashedly challenges, grinning broadly as he drops gracelessly on to one of the mats. He waves the older man to the one across from him.

Obi-Wan steps over, exhaling his worries as he slides to the floor with more dignity. “No,” he eventually admits, gathering the truth around him and trying to make himself more comfortable with it than he entirely feels at the moment, “I suppose I won’t be, at that.”

Anakin is there again—surging forward in the bond no differently than when he’s rushing to his side on the field of battle. The Knight looks more relaxed than he feels, leaning forward with his arms over criss-crossed legs, and in no way prepared to meditate. That, at least, doesn’t seem to have changed at all. Obi-Wan idly wonders if there’s still hope for convincing Anakin of it again, or if that too left with the rest of the world as he’s known it.

“Well, that depends; do you really need that much help with your shields?”

Oh, dear.

They share a brief look. Anakin is a strange mix of laughter and worry in the Force, while Obi-Wan finds himself echoing the same mix back without much thought. Ah, the Council really wouldn’t like this at all, would they? Frankly, he can’t bring himself to care.

“This is exactly what they were worried about, you know,” he says before Anakin can ask again. Instead, the younger man settles back and tilts his head inquisitively. “At the moment, I’m having a little difficulty telling where you end and I begin… and I’m quite sure I’m not nearly as alarmed about it as I should be.”

Anakin parses his statement relatively quickly, brimming with curiosity in the Force. “You talked to them about our bond? But I thought they gave up on it years ago.”

Obi-Wan’s expression is wry. “Well, they gave up actively pushing the issue during the war.”

Two months, now.

“We don’t even know if it’s permanent, though?” Anakin’s brow furrows with his words and their bond hums with the rapid churn of thoughts from his end.

It’s a valid point, of course. There’s a difference between an armistice and a treaty, and Force help him but he is _not_ prepared to really think about that potential disaster should things heat up again. They would join the fight again, of course. They share the certainty of it between them, just another universal constant they’ve accepted, Jedi or otherwise. It’s the possible political fallout that gives him a headache just contemplating it, so he switches topics instead.

“Regardless, Anakin, you know the Council has never really approved of us keeping the bond, let alone how strong it’s become.”

“But that’s a good thing.” Anakin’s words radiate confidence and confusion in equal amounts. “I thought, since they hadn’t said anything…”

“To you, perhaps.”

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?

The all-too-familiar sting of betrayal jolts through the bond with the force of a slap to the face.

Then, in all the ways Obi-Wan has tried to explain and never been fully understood, Anakin sinks into the bond and steadies himself against the rage and the hurt and the bitterness that swirl like a tempest still somewhere behind the vestiges of his shields. Warmth, understanding and a hint of pride roll out from Obi-Wan in a flash of imagery and sensation. Beyond, in the distant part he knows must belong to Anakin but which still feels like a very extended part of himself, the storm still rages.

Unlike the masters on the Council, though, its presence no longer concerns him. Anakin belongs to the Living Force and emotion is part and parcel of that. Nothing more complicated. Nothing so dark. Like the Force itself, it simply is.

“…I kind of wish I could have seen their faces when you said that,” Anakin hums, eyes bright with mirth as he picks out the surface level thoughts Obi-Wan still hasn’t bothered to block between them.

“Well, it…wasn’t in so many words,” Obi-Wan deflects, a hand up to stroke his beard again before he’s really thought about it.

Anakin arches an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips again.

Obi-Wan sighs.

“I…wasn’t planning to discuss that particular topic, actually,” he explains. “In their attempt to divert the conversation there was an…implication that I may have become too invested as a result of your supposed inability to maintain proper shielding due to the strength of our bond, and…”

< Irritation-loneliness-confusion-pride-affection-fear.

There’s a sudden sound; the combination of a crack and crash that snaps sudden and sharp and deafening. >

“…I did not handle it well.”

Anakin’s eyes go almost perfectly round in shock as the images fly between them. “You…you _flipped a table_?!”

“Technically, I only broke it.” Obi-Wan winces.

“At the Council?!” Anakin’s voice is climbing in a way it hasn’t done in years.

“It only split—”

“Master, you _flipped a table_ at the Council _for me_.”

Obi-Wan’s sigh is too fond to be effective. “…That is a rather poor summary of events.”

< It was huge and original wood at that. Old, so old there aren’t even records of when it arrived. It has, quite simply, always been a part of the Temple, even if it wasn’t always present in the Council chambers.

The collapse splinters the central stem in at least four ways. Dust and debris rises in a cloud above the jagged edges of at least five large sections. Shock permeates. >

Anakin reels back with a peal of gleeful laughter and the building tempest vanishes completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### In Case You Missed It:
> 
> Some legends references were made here. Most of the time, you won’t need to know about any of it because if it’s actually important, we explain it. If it’s not, consider it an Easter egg.
> 
> **Obi-Wan getting stuck in Hyperspace:** Pretty sure this is still Legends. A thing that happened when he was crushing on a fellow Jedi early in his career. See also the fic summary about no one else understanding his padawan.
> 
> **Anakin giving Obi-Wan his lightsaber at 12:** So this was a comic that actually came out not that long ago, as Star Wars things go, and I actually have no idea if this is considered canon or not but it’s adorable and we’re going to use it, so. Basically, this is absolutely padawan Anakin thinking about leaving the order because he’s not sure they live up to their morals and it bugs him. Obi-Wan and Yoda have an adorable conversation about how if Anakin goes so too does Obi-Wan. It’s good for the heart and you should read it.
> 
> **A note on official dates:**
> 
> So, as far as I can tell, there doesn't seem to be any official source on the month or day certain things happened in Star Wars? Thus, while we've generally kept everything in the year it's supposed to happen, in roughly the order events happen in, the month was basically a judgment call by yours truly. It's also worth noting that 19 BBY (the last year of the Clone Wars) is also considerably after some of the particular shatterpoints we've focused on.
> 
> tl;dr: By the time we hit 19 BBY the timeline is massively in flux already and as such, consider anything 19 BBY or later pretty much free game.
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_
> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * _Battle of Sundari_  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn’t  
> 
>   * Ahsoka’s Trial / Leaving The Order
>   * ????
>   * _The Clone Wars pause_
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
> 

> 
> **MULTIPLE YEARS PASS (ﾉ´ｰ´)ﾉ**
> 
> **Current Year**
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
> 



	3. In Which Anakin Has Been Thinking (A Dangerous Pastime, I Know)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waifu Wine Pairing:
> 
> For Anakin — “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond,  
>  For Obi-Wan — “Damned If I Do Ya (Damned If I Don’t)” by All Time Low  
>  For Both — “The One” by Backstreet Boys
> 
> Obi-Wan and Anakin take some well-earned time off on a tropical planet. If by “well earned” you mean “after abandoning everything they’ve ever known” and “tropical planet” you mean “jungle covered, Sith-infested moon.”
> 
> Like you do.
> 
> [ Rating Update: Explicit content. ] 

### 19 BBY, 9th Month: Outer Rim, Unknown Planet

According to the ship’s chronometer, it’s been nearly a standard week by the time they drop out of hyperspace and actually _stop_. Apart from occasionally checking over the navigation console or chatting with Artoo, Anakin has largely kept to himself about their destination, leaving Obi-Wan understandably curious when the white streaks of hyperspace are suddenly replaced by the soft red glow of a large planet. It takes several minutes to realize it’s not a stopover, and by the time he has, Artoo is already rolling across the cabin with a low whistle.

Obi-Wan draws himself up from the meditation mat and makes his way towards the viewport. Anakin glances over his shoulder as Obi-Wan draws even with the pilot seat, giving a smile and a warm welcome across their bond. “We’re here,” he needlessly announces.

“A gas giant,” Obi-Wan just as needlessly observes, leaning against the co-pilot’s chair. He catches the warmth as it slides across his newly rebuilt shielding and reflects it back with a soft touch of thankfulness mixed in. “Well, I must say, it’s certainly not anywhere one might expect us to go.”

Anakin gives him a grin and gestures to the chair. “Buckle up.”

Obi-Wan sits, gaze never leaving the viewport. The planet seems ominous at best. “When I told you to let the Force decide, I admit I was hoping for somewhere…habitable.”

They land on a moon.

A humid, stormy wreck of a moon covered in lush jungle as far as the eye can see. Fortunately, Anakin is piloting, so the landing is possible. Unfortunately, Anakin is piloting, so Obi-Wan abruptly takes his leave of the cabin the moment they touch down.

Anakin finds him at the end of the loading ramp only a minute or so later, drawing deep breaths and steadying himself on the soil of a living planet. It’s a little…wet. Recent storms still linger in the ozone, water collecting in pools on giant leaves and trickling in small rivulets down the cliff-like trees surrounding a landing area barely larger than the ship itself. The unmistakeable thrum of _life_ surrounds them in the air and the plants and the very ground as thickly as it does in the Force.

“I…can’t say I recognize this place.”

“You wouldn’t,” Anakin hums, a prickly ball of pride and curiosity not even trying to remain wholly on his end of the bond.

Obi-Wan glances askance with a quirked brow.

“It’s not on the maps,” he clarifies with a grin.

“And you know of it because…?”

“I crashed here, once.”

“Of course.”

### 19 BBY, 9th Month: Outer Rim, Unknown Planet’s Moon - Day 1

It doesn’t take long to find shelter, surprisingly.

Or, well, it would be more surprising if Anakin hadn’t immediately taken off in a specific direction with such confidence Obi-Wan didn’t even bother asking before following. The Force is a beacon of light around Anakin in a way Obi-Wan doesn’t often see regardless of their time together and for once he can find no reason to protest their sudden, immediate diversion.

They end up at a cave hardly more than a few minutes’ walk from their ship. A bit of careful observation, however, proves it to actually be a strange growing pattern in the aboveground roots of a towering tree. It’s not what Obi-Wan had expected Anakin to select as a place to essentially hole themselves up for a bit, but he can’t say he’s unappreciative.

Artoo is far less so, and chooses to stay with the ship.

It takes some cajoling but they eventually manage to convince the droid into helping identify local plant life before he sequesters himself back in their transport.

.: Poisonous :.

“Again?” Obi-Wan can’t quite keep the frustration from his voice.

.: Poisonous :. Artoo repeats, along with several choice words the older man chooses not to hear.

“Still no luck, Master?” Anakin asks a bit too sweetly from where he sits, stoking a small campfire.

“It’s your luck too, unless you want to eat _even more_ ration bars,” Obi-Wan drily answers, tossing the leaf into the fire with the rest of the rejected flora.

“ _I_ found perfectly good food an hour ago.”

“I am _not_ eating worms.”

“Your loss.”

### 19 BBY, 9th Month: Outer Rim, Unknown Planet’s Moon - Day 2

The rain returns the next morning and lasts through the day.

Sleeping on actual soil is still preferable to the stiff, regulation bunk in the frigate, so they stay huddled amidst worn brown robes and a pair of rough, woollike blankets dug out from their survival gear. The fire, unneeded during the day, flickers beneath an invisible barrier diverting the spray of rainfall as the daylight fades. Anakin seems wholly at ease with the casual but constant use of the Force for such a benign thing, and Obi-Wan resolves not to comment on it so long as he can’t sense any fatigue.

“…You feel…old.”

Obi-Wan slants a wry expression Anakin’s way.

“I mean—”

Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow.

Anakin makes a frustrated noise and pulls a face, plucking a few floating thoughts from the air and sprinkling them back along the bond in an attempt to show instead. It’s a blur of rainy memories, a feeling of dusty, stuffiness that might crowd you in an old room, and something…fond.

Obi-Wan smiles. “Nostalgic, I think.”

“Right, nostalgic,” Anakin agrees as if it’s exactly what he’d said in the first place. “Why?”

“When we first arrived at the Temple after…Naboo.” Obi-Wan sighs, but the gentle smile doesn’t leave as he turns towards the rain again, still coming down in a veritable sheet of water. “We had a scheduled storm. Nothing quite so grand as all this,” — a gesture for the sky falling before them — “Except to you.”

Anakin groans and drops his head to his knees. “You remember that.”

“Of course I remember,” Obi-Wan huffs in good humor. “…as does half the Temple, I imagine.”

“You’re exaggerating.” It’s a barter more than a statement, accompanied by a wave of embarrassment and the impression of a slight child made slighter by overlarge padawan robes.

“Well, half the Masters, at least,” Obi-Wan allows, lowering his shields for the memory to spill over a bit between them.

< It’s the first time the child has laughed since the blockade, the palace, the senator, the queen and the Sith.

Rain pours down, beating over the open gardens rising high enough and wide enough into the skies of Coruscant to catch the cleansing water before it evaporates into the air thousands of levels below. No one is surprised by it. Not by the lightning, nor the thunder, nor the downpour.

They _all_ startle at the delighted shriek of a golden-haired child who rushes into the downpour. He’s drenched instantly; overlarge clothes sticking to a body still too thin from toil and tribulation. It’s not the sound or the image he makes — dashing around with his arms flung out, joyful face turned up to the skies — that draws the attention of the Jedi in the halls, however.

It’s the light — the halo of warmth and strength in the Force — surrounding him that flares into a wild, brilliant corona. >

“Is that—”

Obi-Wan blinks himself into the present, dragged out of the memory by the uncharacteristic smallness in Anakin’s words. His former padawan has lifted his head but not far, sharp blue gaze carefully thoughtful as he retreats from their bond. Obi-Wan lets him, gently withdrawing the memory as well, and waits.

“…Is that really how you see me?”

Ah.

“Not always,” Obi-Wan says after a moment’s consideration. “At times, however, you are quite…difficult to ignore, my padawan.”

Anakin snorts his opinion of that, but keeps his gaze primarily on the fire. The rain continues to splatter over the flames, his protection unfaltering no matter his mood. “I haven’t been your padawan in years.”

Obi-Wan’s affection only deepens in the bond. “No, you have not,” he amiably agrees. “You have more than proven yourself as a Knight, and I daresay you would have proven yourself a Master too, if not for the rashness of my actions.” Something stirs behind his walls, but quickly falls still.

“I _like_ your rashness, Master,” Anakin teases, grinning through the prideful embarrassment shimmering into the bond, free-flowing between them once more. “I happen to think it’s one of your better traits.”

“Do you, now?”

“Well, it got me here, didn’t it?”

“One would expect that to be a point against it,” Obi-Wan teases.

“Why?” Anakin unfolds himself then, leaning back on his hands so he can stretch his legs towards the fire. “I’m exactly where I want to be for the first time in _months_. That has to be worth something.”

There’s a brief pause as Obi-Wan considers this, eventually turning his attention from the rain and the fire to Anakin directly. “And where is that?”

He’s rewarded with a wry grin. It’s easy to catch all the unprotected thoughts that fly between: where they are and where they stand — separate, but each important — along with concern, affection, trust, and curiosity. It’s less easy to figure out where they originate.

In some ways, Anakin has always pushed for this level of openness and in many ways Obi-Wan is still adjusting to it. In fact, for all that Anakin seems to have made himself at home in their bond, there are still some tightly bundled thoughts tucked back, away and off-limits. Obi-Wan appreciates it; in a way, it gives him time. For as much as Anakin would, he’s certain, raze all barriers given the chance, Obi-Wan still needs his space, no matter how small, to cement himself and his thoughts free from the torrent of emotion-thought-power that is Anakin Skywalker.

< Master. >

Obi-Wan blinks and then settles back with a rueful chuckle. “I thought I’d gotten better about that.”

Anakin gives an unconcerned shrug, his smile turning lopsided as he nudges Obi-Wan’s shields into place with a level of care very few people ever get to witness from him. Obi-Wan just shakes his head and takes over the task with a brush of thanks, swiftly rebuilding the borders of his psyche with the practiced precision of a master who never should have let them dissolve in the first place. Well. At least they have plenty of time to work out the kinks.

“Better?”

“Quite.”

Anakin gives a sharp nod and leans over, brushing away some topsoil with a wave of the Force so he can carve out a rudimentary picture between them. “The route was a little convoluted,” he explains while dragging a curving line over and around a small rock and then back, away from the fire and further into the shelter. “I took us out on the Hydian,” he says, backtracking along the mark he’d just made — the Hydian Way, apparently — and then abruptly cutting back towards himself only a short distance along.

“The Vaalthkree Trade Corridor?” Obi-Wan guesses, gaze darting up from the dirt to catch the thoughtful confirmation from his companion. His knowledge of hyperspace lanes isn’t quite as complete as Anakin’s, but it’s enough to follow along as the paths branch. “Towards the Perlimian Trade Route?”

Victory radiates down the bond. “That’s what it’s supposed to look like,” Anakin announces with a grin as he digs his thumb into the ground at the end of a small lane off the Vallthkree Trade Corridor. Another short, swooping line and another dot in the dirt, farther away from the rock supposed to indicate them. “We didn’t stay on it very long, though, and took the Randon down to Kashyyyk.”

“I’m beginning to understand Artoo’s complaining,” Obi-Wan dryly comments of the growing distance between their apparent destination and the route being drawn in front of him.

“You wanted to obfuscate,” Anakin reminds him with an upward glance Obi-Wan is more used to seeing from across the cool glow of a command console. Just like that, his padawan is replaced by a general. “Once you hit the Great Kashyyyk Branch, there are a bunch of less commonly used lanes that go mostly straight on to Boonta.”

“Hutt Space.”

Anakin shrugs without looking up again. “It’s easier to fake the ship registrations in Hutt Space. Also, I wanted to top up on fuel before the next jump —“

“— and you wanted to make sure you could pay for it.”

“Exactly.” Satisfaction curls into the bond as Anakin finally begins curving the route back towards Obi-Wan and the rock marking their current location. “The rest of the routes aren’t usually tagged by Republic astrogation. You buy the maps as you go, or — more likely — pay for a guide.”

Obi-Wan drops a hand from his beard so he can lean in and attempt to make heads or tails of the new web of routes Anakin is drawing out. By hand. In the dirt. Anakin flashes a prideful grin the moment realization hits him. “You — you had this _memorized_?”

“Well at the time, I only had part of it,” Anakin says, ignoring the strangled sounds Obi-Wan makes from this new information, “but I remember the rest from the trip.”

“ _Anakin_ ,” Obi-Wan only faintly manages, unsure if he’s even really surprised, or just impressed into dumbfounded silence. It’s a familiar sensation for him, at least. Years of having to play catchup with Anakin’s daredevil decisions in the Clone Wars gives him some mental footing. Judging from the see-saw of tension, wonder and pride spilling over from Anakin, however, his former padawan is a bit less prepared for the reaction.

Anakin clears his throat and adds some dots. “Anyway, the longer route got us back to the Perlimian well after anyone would have shot ahead looking for us,” he quickly continues. “And I took us out around Columex, so it was pretty unlikely anyone was looking there anyway.”

Obi-Wan has to concede that — in theory, at least — re-routing them out of Republic space makes sense if the goal is ultimately being left alone. Hutt Space, then, is the logical next step for any Republic citizen vying for a not-completely-hostile trip. It, therefore, also makes sense to continue out of Hutt Space just as quickly, as the Jedi maintain a fairly up-to-date information network within it.

“Even with the Armistice, taking us through Separatist space isn’t exactly the safest choice,” Obi-Wan eventually answers.

Anakin just gives another, accepting nod. “Right, but that also makes it the route least likely to be followed.” The tangle of lines continues with only a slight contemplative pause, until he’s leaning well into Obi-Wan’s space to complete the map back where he’d started it. “I remembered the rest from that time I tracked Ventress here and stole her ship to get back. I figured if I could get us most of the way, I could pick up the last bit once Artoo calibrated to the local star positions.”

Utterly _brilliant_.

Obi-Wan is momentarily uncertain if he actually says anything, or sends more than the unavoidable crash of proud affection out into the bond. Then Anakin lifts his head from the diagram and it’s suddenly difficult to remember his concerns. He’s close enough that the intense triumph-curiosity-love in their bond feels like a physical presence suffusing the humid air and settling heavily over his skin. They’ve been this close before, but somehow that doesn’t matter when all he can see is blue eyes and all he feels is suffocating heat.

Force, he’s beautiful.

Time clicks back into motion when the firelight sizzles and dims.

Anakin turns away to resume the barrier.

Obi-Wan shifts back again, scrambling to pull all of himself that he dares back behind firm shields so quickly that Anakin’s attention snaps back with a press of open concern.

“My apologies,” Obi-Wan immediately offers, retreating quickly into his own mind and trying to push soft appreciation into the bond instead. Force, he thought he’d conquered this already. Anakin’s gaze narrows in a way both contemplative and worried with a hint of uncertainty. The light of the fire paints a warm halo through Anakin’s loose hair — Obi-Wan wrenches his gaze to the ground again.

Yes, the map. Much safer.

He clears his throat. “It’s a brilliant route.”

It takes another moment for Anakin to react, but eventually the compliment lands and he shifts from concern to a tentative sort of preen instead. “I thought so.”

Obi-Wan lets his attention drift over the strange map before him, using the task to refocus. Slowly, the image on the ground begins to resemble one he drags out of the depths of memory. At least he’s positive it’s his own memory, this time. “So that places us somewhere in the Gordian Reach.”

Not _technically_ Republic space, but not technically Separatist either, even if it is a bit close for comfort to the latter.

Another memory tickles the back of his mind as Anakin makes a noise of confirmation.

“Did you happen to review the maps after your previous visit?”

A habitable moon orbiting a red gas giant in the Gordian Reach. He’s sure he’s seen records on that… _somewhere_.

“Mmhm.” Anakin leans back again, now facing away from the fire. “The Temple Archives were a little stubborn about it, but I eventually found a description that matched it in one of the histories. Apparently, it’s called Yavin.”

### 19 BBY, 10th Month: A Moon of Yavin, In General

Life is, generally, _awesome_ , thinks Anakin as he sits down in the pilot’s seat of the starfighter.

He honestly can’t remember the last time he had that particular thought — if ever. If he did, he’s pretty sure it was during a time when he had responsibilities and was with someone he hasn’t seen in months, and either way, he’s pretty sure this is better. Sure, it’s not the casual decadence of a Senator’s private residence, and it doesn’t quite have the adrenaline rush of a starfighter skirmish, but he’s also not sneaking around suffocating with worry or tensely anticipating the next blast, alarm, or shriek. 

That’s not to say life isn’t _interesting_. 

At the very least, stumbling across the third set of broken-down ruins in as many days has given them something to ponder over. Or, well, Obi-Wan stares at them contemplatively, frowning as he dredges up the little he remembers reading some far-off night when they’d had the time between battles for General Kenobi to disappear into the Temple archives until his former padawan dragged him out for the next morning’s spar. Anakin, meanwhile, contemplates Obi-Wan. 

Sure, the ruins are _interesting_. Of course they are. The Force led them here, after all, and the moment his master proclaims one of the dilapidated pillars definitely _Sith_ , it’s pretty clear why. There’s no real _darkness_ within the architecture, though, and Anakin is too preoccupied with the push and pull of emotion-image-thought along their bond to spend his attention on something he’s pretty sure Obi-Wan will dig into on his own. 

Anyway, it’s not like they don’t have the time. Which is honestly so brilliantly _new_ Anakin doesn’t know what to do with himself. In the past several days, they’ve found themselves tripping over many a new stone entrance to something blocked and probably forbidden, and it’s due in large part to the sheer amount of restless energy that drags him out of sleep at dawn and into every nook and cranny within a few hours’ walk from their ship. Normally, he’s pretty sure that alone would have driven Obi-Wan crazy within three days, tops. 

Instead, Obi-Wan follows, steers them doubtfully away from “things that shouldn’t be tampered with,” makes quiet, disbelieving entreaties as to why the Force would insist on a place like _this_ , and generally radiates with enough academic curiosity regardless that Anakin basically ignores his concerns and keeps exploring. By the time they find the fourth batch of ruins, Obi-Wan makes them double back for a tablet — because being off grid is no reason not to take _notes_. Anakin’s pretty sure he can learn more from poking around with the Force than Obi-Wan ever will via photos and careful notation, but eventually relents after the third, insistent push of concern-affection-worry across their bond. 

He’s still getting used to being able to read Obi-Wan’s emotions so openly. 

It’s nice.

In fact, it’s probably his favorite part.

Because no matter how many times Obi-Wan stops to analyze a new plant, coax a creature closer for a photo, or make disconcerted notes on some faint, runic script barely readable on dilapidated stone, they don’t have to rush on to the next thing. He gets to watch Obi-Wan be genuinely curious without concern for time or, say, Master Luminara being imminently possessed by mind-controlling worms. He doesn’t get reprimanded for wandering off when the Force whispers-draws-sings to him. He just goes. Obi-Wan frets, but Anakin isn’t told to ignore what’s around him because of a mission timetable, or some kind of decorum and duty expected of a Jedi Knight. 

Because they _aren’t_ Jedi, really. Not anymore.

Because they left the Order. 

Because _Obi-Wan_ left _for him_. 

Because Obi-Wan _flipped a table at the Council for him_.

Which is… 

“ _Anakin_.”

_Incredible_.

“Sorry, Master, I’ve got it,” Anakin answers, tossing the other man a broad grin before returning to the startup sequence. 

Fond amusement travels the bond and settles into the Force between them with distinct familiarity. Obi-Wan just shakes his head lightly and buckles into the co-pilot seat, unconcerned and relaxed. 

Yavin’s fourth moon might be a fun vacation, but if they’re going to stay, they’re going to need better supplies, and it’s not even a given they’ll be staying. Even without the Council breathing down their necks, there’s an entire galaxy in a precarious stalemate that they haven’t checked on in two weeks. Who knows what might have happened in the meantime? It had barely been a discussion. 

Of course, they’ll have to deal with the Council _eventually_ — they’ll have to deal with the entire Jedi _thing_ eventually. Just the way they left — he shattered the _whole table_ — would be enough to warrant concern. Anakin gets that, he does. He just…might be more than a little taken with the fact that Obi-Wan Kenobi, one of the youngest Jedi Masters in generations, _certainly_ the youngest Council Member, the man he’d looked up to as the pinnacle of what a Jedi should be since he was _ten_ , who had time and again chosen duty over attachment — over _love_ — had left the Order. 

For _him_.

Actually. 

Anakin absently passes flight control back to Artoo, and thinks. 

It’s not that he still looks at his master the same way he did as a starstruck kid, or a lonely padawan. He knows the man has had his struggles. It wasn’t _obvious_ of course, but that had been part of the deal. All the parts of themselves they couldn’t stand. _Actual_ honesty. He’d been afraid, then. He can admit it now, with the detachment of hindsight and — admittedly — the relief that came with actually sharing the darkness that had haunted him for years. 

Obi-Wan had been just as shocked as he’d anticipated — by the violence, the hatred, the grief — but not by the _attachment_. Couldn’t be, Anakin realized after the sluice gate had finally opened between them. Not just because he’d known about Padmé, either (to Anakin’s everlasting embarrassment; _Force,_ the look she’d given him about it later), but because Obi-Wan had felt himself incapable of keeping his padawan from making the same mistakes he had. 

At the time, Anakin hadn’t been entirely ready to listen to what his master thought were _mistakes_ , especially when one of them was Padmé, but over time and conversation and meditation he’d slowly started to understand. The image of the perfect Jedi Master cracked little by little until it shattered entirely from his mind. Not because Obi-Wan doesn’t have the same raw strength in the Force as he does. Not because Obi-Wan was in any way deficient in saber techniques, or incapable of maintaining his cool in the direst of situations that required both mastery and discernment. In many ways, Anakin _still_ trusts his old master more than himself. 

No, it’s because of all the ways Obi-Wan Kenobi fell in love. 

With a Duchess on the run from her own people, desperately fighting for something better than what they had. Almost the entire time they’d spent together, Obi-Wan had explained, was a carefully danced line between oaths. Those he swore to her, to himself, and the Order. It wasn’t the first time he’d considered leaving, nor the last. The revelation had been…monumental. 

But it wasn’t _just Satine_. 

There was that other padawan he’d fought beside (Anakin never did get a name, he suspects because he’s met her). Obi-Wan hadn’t been able to completely avoid his embarrassment when explaining the confessions shared between them before they’d both agreed to uphold their oaths to the Order and “abandon dangerous attachment” before it could become something uncontrollable. Still, it had been the same offer: join and leave, or part and stay. 

But when the choice became the Order and the life he’s built and everything he’s ever known, or _Anakin_ , somehow…somehow _Anakin_ had won. 

Which was _awesome_ , but more so _interesting_.

Because in every case Obi-Wan had considered leaving, it was over a relationship. Over love, affection, and attachment — or _him_. 

_Is_ there a difference?

Anakin sinks into the thought. 

He’s been in love. He’s been in a relationship. He knows what the two mean together. For him and Padmé it was a desperate, all-consuming _desire_. But…his gaze slides contemplatively to where Obi-Wan reviews some notes on his tablet…but what _else_ was there in a relationship? 

It was spending time together, wasn’t it? Wanting to be around each other, talking openly about your day, your work, your feelings. Entrusting a little part of yourself to someone else’s care, sure, but more directly it was…well, it was running into danger when they needed your help. It was knowing they would do the same in a heartbeat. It was worrying over them and wanting them to be happy and to cheer them up when they’re down. It was falling asleep together and waking up glad to be near them and living together when you could and feeling like part of you was out of place when you couldn’t. 

…it was heat that pooled low in the stomach and the anticipation of pleasure and the satisfaction of causing the same—

Hm.

…would he have sex with Obi-Wan?

He looks askance again, this time met with the elegant raise of an eyebrow as Obi-Wan catches him and the strange tumult of thought churning from his side of the bond. 

Yes. Yes, he would _absolutely_ have sex with Obi-Wan. 

“Master?” Anakin leans back again as the curve of Yavin’s fourth moon comes into view.

“Hm?”

“Are we in a relationship?”

“ _Anakin_ , I—what kind of question is _that_?”

He can feel the frantic hum of Obi-Wan’s thoughts from the other end of the bond. It’s a little muted and pulled in, so he casts easy affection out into the Force and the bond equally. Obi-Wan has been a bit jumpy lately, and that tends to help.

It doesn’t.

“A relevant one?” Anakin hazards, gesturing around them.

Obi-Wan draws a slow breath. “No, Anakin, we are _not_.”

“Huh.”

He can’t quite catch the emotions abruptly shunted into the Force a moment later, but he can _feel_ the exasperation and deep concern that follows. That much, he’s used to. Anakin glances at the console again, making sure they’re still ascending on route before offering the logical followup.

“ _Should_ we be?”

This time, Obi-Wan just sighs, resignation seeping out as he scrubs a hand over his face.

Anakin leaps into the pause with an enthusiasm born of someone who’s spent too much time in their own thoughts. “It’s just. It fits?”

“Are you _asking_ me, or—?”

“You left the Order for me,” Anakin interrupts, now turning completely in his seat to lean over the armrest and address Obi-Wan directly. He augments the movement with a deliberate prod through their bond that drags Obi-Wan’s attention back to him, however hesitantly, and waits.

Silence.

“ _Master_.”

He increasingly gets the very distinct impression that Obi-Wan wants to be literally anywhere else in the galaxy than the cabin of a small frigate with him at current moment.

Well, too bad.

“You left the Order for _me_ ,” Anakin presses, because he’s thought about this for several minutes _at least_ and no matter what angle he approaches from, he always comes back to that one simple fact.

“I…yes.” Obi-Wan clears his throat and sits back as though physically putting distance between them will help. “I don’t see how—”

“So the last person you offered to leave for was the Duchess,” Anakin interrupts again.

“Satine was—it was complicated, Anakin, you cannot—”

“ _Twice_ , Master.”

“That does _not_ —”

“And before her it was some other padawan—”

He’s pretty sure there was a third person, _at least_ , but Obi-Wan had been a bit evasive about the exact situation the last time it had come up. Regardless, Anakin knows the love interest was at least _part_ of the reason Obi-Wan had considered leaving at the time, so. Definitely a pattern.

“ _Anakin_ ,” Obi-Wan firmly interjects, or tries to.

Anakin barrels right over him, heedless. “And now it’s _me_ , Master. Every other time you almost left it was because you were in love. You were in love and wanted to be with them, so you offered to leave. But this time, you left for _me_. So, obviously, you’re in love with me.”

Obi-Wan makes a strangled noise.

“And anyway, it’s not like we haven’t already been living together, and saving each other’s lives all the time, and sharing a room, and a bed, and—”

“Anakin.”

“—the only real difference between you and me and me and Padmé is Padmé and I had sex basically all the time—”

Another noise that might have been his name.

“—and I thought about it and I would _absolutely_ have sex with you.”

Silence.

Anakin waits.

Obi-Wan stares.

Anakin stops waiting; he’s terrible at it anyway.

“Master.”

This time, the bond itself feels like it’s inhaling along with the older man. Obi-Wan’s expression is a curious combination of blank shock and discomfort, while his presence in the Force is far less definable. “…Anakin,” he eventually manages, gathering himself up in that way that basically demands he be calm and collected and capable of holding a conversation. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Obi-Wan makes another, disconcerted noise in the back of his throat and brings a hand up to stroke his beard in that way he does, which Anakin is only just now realizing has a rather gentlemanly charm. “It’s…it would be incredibly inappropriate.”

“Why?”

“You _can't_ be serious, Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighs, irritation apparently rousing him back to form faster than anything. “I practically _raised you_.”

“My _mother_ raised me—”

“Nevertheless,” Obi-Wan cuts in before they can get sidetracked by Anakin’s offense, “I’ve been responsible for you since you were _ten_. It’s hardly _appropriate_.”

“But I’m _not_ ten?” Anakin traces his way back along the bond in an open attempt to pull Obi-Wan’s reasoning straight to his mind, since it’s not making much sense to him at the moment. “I’m not even your padawan anymore.”

Affection-care-concern-guilt.

Obi-Wan sighs and shakes his head, but doesn’t change his shielding or retreat any further, no matter how uncomfortable he remains in the Force. “You may be a Knight now—”

“And an adult?” Anakin helpfully adds, because he’s pretty sure Obi-Wan is hung up on this and needs the reassurance even if he’s not entirely sure _why_.

“I. Am. _Aware_. Anakin.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Another pause and a twist of uncomfortable emotion slides between them. “Do you _not_ want to sleep with me?”

Obi-Wan does that careful inhale again and looks up to the ceiling, his side of the bond going strangely still.

Anakin frowns, for a moment uncertain of what he’s sensing — or not, as the case seems to be. “Obi-Wan?” he tentatively offers, gently pushing warmth, affection and understanding out between them. This…isn’t what he’d expected. It’s difficult to keep disappointment from the churn of emotions but he manages to dim it at least. “I—if you aren’t—if you don’t think I’m attractive or something, you can…you can just tell me, you know.

‘I get it. Padmé says most people have preferences for that sort of thing and, okay, I don’t _really_ get it because I don’t think there are a lot of similarities between the two of you, and I’m _definitely_ at _least_ as attracted to you as I am—er, was?—to her—”

“ _Anakin_ —”

“—And now that I’m thinking about it, breaking a table and running away with me is pretty romantic? Which, honestly? Just kind of makes sleeping with you _more_ appealing—”

“Anakin, _please_.” The desperation in Obi-Wan’s voice halts Anakin mid-ramble. Obi-Wan does that same, slow breathing technique Anakin absently recognizes as a thing he was taught once and promptly discarded in most cases. Nevertheless, it seems to brace the older man in some way that lets him talk again. “I am… _trying_ to remain honest with you.”

“…Okay?”

Obi-Wan gives him a look. He’s more familiar with that look, but he’s also legitimately not following—

Wait.

Obi-Wan stopped talking back when…

“You _do_ want to sleep with me?”

Obi-Wan strangles another sound somewhere in the back of his throat and turns his gaze to the viewport. Careful stillness surrounds him in the Force. “It would not—”

“That’s not a ‘no’,” Anakin says with growing, victorious _glee_ spilling over between them.

“Anakin, that is _hardly_ —”

“You think I’m attractive.”

Another, soft noise. “I...” A sigh. “Yes.” It sounds painful the way it’s pulled from him.

It sounds _true_.

Anakin spins back to the console and promptly changes course. Obi-Wan is making noises again, the Force bond a tangle of preening happiness, guilt, attraction, discomfort and hope between them. Maybe Artoo beeps. Maybe Obi-Wan’s noises turn to words. He doesn’t pay enough attention to either to be sure.

* * *

By the time they land again, Anakin feels ready to jump out of his skin. His pulse is racing in anticipation and his mind is a continuous feed of eager inquiries. There’s an absent thought that his first awkward, teenage fumblings weren’t that far off after all, because Obi-Wan has really only gotten _more_ handsome over the years, and he would know because he’s seen his master in every state of healthy, injured, dressed and undressed he can think of, but it’s no longer enough to merely have the memories.

Artoo, perhaps reading the room better than the two humans contributing to the mood, barely waits long enough for the ramp to drop before shrieking past an utterly bemused Obi-Wan and off into the wilderness.

“…Anakin?”

He wonders what the skin of Obi-Wan’s chest feels like, and whether the taut muscles would be just as nice as Padmé’s soft breasts—and yes, he’s seen Obi-Wan without a shirt before, but it’s just _not the same_. Now Anakin has an endless litany of questions that he’s never thought about until now, and it occurs to him he’s really been missing out, especially with the prolonged period post-Padmé when he had only his hand and _Force meditation_.

Is Obi-Wan good at kissing? Anakin is willing to bet Obi-Wan is good at kissing.

“Anakin, is everything all right?”

He wonders if Obi-Wan still sounds so crisp and put together when he’s at the edge of release. If his own name sounds better when that Coruscanti accent breaks into a moan of pleasure. He wonders how it would feel to be the center of Obi-Wan’s attention in a completely different way because he’s so sure Obi-Wan is an attentive lover.

“ _Anakin_.” The hand on his arm brings Anakin back to earth.

Does the beard make kissing different?

He’s barely finished with the thought before he’s acting on it: launching straight from chair to chest, hands scrabbling against shirt, shoulders, and cloak for enough grip to haul them together.

It’s scratchy, it turns out.

Familiar warmth stiffens beneath his hands, but there’s another pair of hands settling over his hips, and beneath the swirl of confusion and worry a small thrill that worms its way into Anakin’s head and makes him press on.

His hold tightens, using the leverage and a tilt of his head to bring them flush, parting his lips and prying Obi-Wan’s apart in the process. His master shudders against him, a sudden flash of pleasure-love-interest splashing across the bond as their tongues finally meet. Hesitation returns—just a glimpse—and Anakin whines somewhere in the back of his throat, rolling his hips forward demandingly. The hands at his hips tighten suddenly, and oh—

Obi-Wan is, in fact, a _very_ good kisser.

Embarrassment sharply contends with arousal in their bond, but before Obi-Wan can get a word in edgewise, Anakin slips a hand around the back of Obi-Wan’s neck, long gloved fingers tangling in short hair so he can adjust the angle. He receives a choked-back moan for his efforts, which is _more_ than enough to drag the same from him. Heat rolls through his veins, deep and familiar, but alight this time from different lips and a different skin, and—

Anakin breaks off earlier than he wants, panting for breath he hadn’t intended to lose. “ _Kriff_ , Master—you’ve been holding out on me.”

Obi-Wan huffs and mutters something then, cut off by the low gasp that accompanies another roll of Anakin’s hips against his own and that’s—well, it’s perfectly _delicious_ , really. He didn’t know that little half-moan that slips out as pleasure radiates unbidden across the bond is everything he’s ever needed in life, but it’s been a revealing couple of weeks.

“ _Anakin_.” His name really _does_ sound better with that soft hitch at the edge of it.

“Mm?” he answers, nuzzling down along the beard, because that too is different but good, and it eventually leads him to the sensitive skin of Obi-Wan’s neck.

“I - ah - I really don’t think—” Another, choked back noise from somewhere in the back of Obi-Wan’s throat cuts him off.

Anakin grins around the flesh he’s caught with his teeth and then presses a kiss to the abused skin in impish apology. “What was what?” He trails teeth and tongue down, cataloguing each little twitch, hitch, and shiver along the way.

Frustration-attraction-irritation joins the miasma of emotion pouring out between them and Obi-Wan’s hold on his hips tightens again. Hm. That’s distracting. “—don’t think this is—Anakin—this isn’t - ah - approp—”

He bites down on an earlobe.

“I’m not hearing ‘Anakin, I don’t want to have sex with you’.”

The smallness of the sound Obi-Wan makes is somehow _more_ attractive than the rest. It’s followed by a sudden deluge of want-worry-love-pleasure in the Force that binds them together. Anakin latches on to the last bit, dumping all his excitement-enjoyment-pleasure in at once.

“ _Force_ —Anakin.” The words are desperate gasps, but then Obi-Wan’s hands are moving again and, okay, it’s a _little_ distracting to have his hips re-directed so they actually meet Obi-Wan’s and he can feel the effect he’s having on the older man.

Distracting, but good. Very good. For a moment, he loses track of his plans and rocks forward instead, exploring the feel of another hardness against his own through the the layers that still separate them. His pants aren’t the most comfortable just now, but the friction is everything he wants, sparking another loop of pleasure to flood the bond all over again.

“What—Force, Anakin, if you keep—”

“Yes— Yes, that’s—”

Obi-Wan moves him again, and Anakin’s barely paying attention anymore. The bond sings with lust-love-want-need, resonating in the Force and doubling back on itself until his very blood is pulsing with it. His back hits something unmoving, and he only registers having enough leverage now to drag his hands up into Obi-Wan’s hair and use it to shove their mouths together again.

He’s pretty sure Obi-Wan says something else, but the words themselves are only pleasant sounds, and his master’s hands are tugging his shirt free and sliding over his skin, and the rough, warm drag makes his breath hitch. He bucks up, feels soft amusement and a hint of exasperation dust over the torrent of passion, and so kisses fiercer, needier, with a low whine. Then the warm hands free his erection to the humid air and, yes, that’s _exactly_ what he wants. Anakin’s hips move instinctively forward into the loose grip, breaking their kiss with an eager moan.

“Yes, yes, want you, want to—” The words tumble out before he can put them in a coherent order. “Show me what—”

Obi-Wan moves his hand, guiding it downward because his master is perfect and knows, of course, exactly what Anakin wants and can’t get out of his head. Belts are more difficult when they aren’t your own, he also realizes, but that’s less of a concern with Obi-Wan helping him and then, finally, they’re both free. Anakin groans and closes his hand around the thick length. _Finally_.

He wants to watch, to compare, to understand all the differences, but then Obi-Wan has him in hand again and all he wants is to stroke and rock and kiss the man until he can’t breathe.

So he does. He crushes their lips together again, sloppy with his love as he curls his flesh hand around Obi-Wan’s erection and tugs. The hand around him jerks, he swallows a moan, and together they find a rhythm.

It’s simple, and easy, and so familiar despite being completely new, but the flood of passion-pleasure-desire in the bond is so intense that their movements turn frantic quickly. The kiss breaks and this time he knows there are words, but he’s not sure who’s saying what. All he knows is the hand stroking him with a firm surety that drags his hips forward every time, and the frenzied drive to give the same in return. His movements are less controlled, less sure, but more eager to please, and if the cock leaking over his hand is any indication, it’s definitely good enough.

They don’t last—neither really wants to and the bond won’t allow it. It’s a wave of too much-too fast-too good, and then they crash, tumbling into and catching each other against the cabin wall.

* * *

Obi-Wan shifts amongst the bundle of cloaks and partially discarded clothes that he’s not dealing with until the morning, and sighs into the night they can only just see through the darkness of the viewport. Anakin is curled up beside him, half asleep and nuzzling still. He’s unsurprised to find the man so tactile after—

“Master, you’re brooding again.”

He huffs. “Hardly.”

“I can _feel_ you thinking, you know.”

Inhale calm. Exhale troubles.

“What is it?” Anakin yawns the words, but the bond feels attentive.

“… Was it entirely necessary to land the ship?”

“What kind of question is _that?_ “ Anakin says, affront slipping into the tone.

“A relevant one?” Obi-Wan feels his mood lift in spite of himself.

Anakin gives the distinct impression of narrowing his eyes in the bond, but settles for pushing at him physically.

“If I hadn’t landed, would you have done anything?”

Sometimes Obi-Wan is reminded that Anakin knows him as well as he knows Anakin. Still…

“I shouldn’t have done anything either way—”

He’s cut off by Anakin rolling onto his stomach so he can throw half his body over Obi-Wan’s, like he’s trying to make sure Obi-Wan doesn’t go anywhere. The warm weight is somehow familiar and inexplicably comforting. “I don’t care.” The words _should_ be petulant, but all he hears is flat determination. Anakin lifts his head, finally, staring him down in the low light. “And neither do you. If we were both doing what we _should_ , we wouldn’t be out here anyway.”

Obi-Wan is about halfway through grudging agreement when Anakin’s determination wears out and he collapses sleepily back down, eyelids already fluttering even as he nuzzles into the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck.

“…I suppose you’re right,” says Obi-Wan finally, a fond smile slipping on to his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### In Case You Missed It:
> 
> I’m just going to clarify a couple of things really quickly here. Yes, we’re pulling from Legends regarding Obi-Wan’s pattern of falling in love with people. He definitely has A Type(tm). Satine, at least, exists in Canon, but Siri Tachi (the Jedi) and Cerasi (of Melida/Daan) are probably still Legends. Either way, Obi-Wan is still far more fleshed out as a person in Legends than in Canon at the moment so we’re just kind of squishing the two together and calling it a day :D
> 
> Also, raise your hand if you guessed Yavin! ^_^
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * Battle of Sundari <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn’t
>   * Ahsoka’s Trial / Leaving The Order
>   * _General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatist_  
>  <Shatterpoint> (obviously this never happened in Canon, but it basically replaces all of Anakin’s bad decisions post Ahsoka so we’ll call it a shatterpoint)
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
>   * _Obi-Wan and Anakin take a vacation to Yavin 4_
> 

> 
> **MULTIPLE YEARS PASS (ﾉ´ｰ´)ﾉ**
> 
> **Current Year**
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
> 



	4. In Which Obi-Wan Eats Space Pizza With a Fork and Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upside: Obi-Wan and Anakin finally make it to a Spaceport. Downside: It’s in Separatist space. Well, at least no one knows where they are, right?
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “Keep Holding On” by Avril Lavigne

### 19 BBY, 10th Month: Phindar Spaceport

Phindar is different than Obi-Wan remembers.

Of course, it’s been nearly two decades and a change of galactic government since his last trip. Then, he was a newly minted padawan desperately trying to play Jedi well enough to earn his Master’s approval. It’s been a long while since he contemplated that time, and the memories have dimmed with age, but he can still draw up the small outline of the Spaceport back then: hardly worth its name and just as unremarkable as the rest of the planet.

The one they request clearance to dock at is…considerably larger, newer, and overtly Confederate.

Obi-Wan’s surprise skirts the edge of the Force bond, surfacing in a twist of images and half-remembered emotion before he has much of a say in the transfer. He does, at least, manage to limit it to the dangle of a padawan braid and the mixture of curiosity-caution-suspicion that crosses from memory to present. Anakin flashes him a confident smirk as he guides the ship into the hangar, the curl of his emotions lazy and unconcerned.

Artoo beeps his seventeenth warning regarding their fuel levels and Obi-Wan desperately shunts creeping embarrassment into the Force, wishing the droid would give up on a topic that is very much not his fault, thank you. Anakin bites his lip, gamely attempting to withhold a snicker, which absolutely does _not_ help. Artoo huffs something in binary as much as a droid can, unhelpfully reiterating his offense as crudely as possible. Obi-Wan ignores that too.

The feeling of discomfort and generally _missing something_ lingers after they dock and stroll out entirely unmolested. Mechanics hustle by, hauling large tool bags, sometimes with a droid scooting after, dragging part of an engine to one of the hundreds of transports docked around them. Anakin immediately launches into a debate with the Phindarian dockmaster assessing their fee, Huttese streaming out at a rather alarming rate. Obi-Wan quietly continues his observations for the time it takes to, near as he can tell, haggle the Phindarian into irritable compliance with…well, he thinks he caught the word for “fuel” in there somewhere.

Smug satisfaction washes over their bond when Anakin finally steps away, grinning broadly and slapping a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder to drag him into the throng of people with a wink and another Huttese expression he definitely doesn’t recognize. The grip on his shoulder is more distracting, however. It’s not as though the other man has never grabbed him with his mechno-arm before, it’s just…usually trying to save his life? The casual show of comfort-affection-ease is rather new.

But not bad, he quickly decides.

“You _are_ aware I have no idea what you’re saying,” Obi-Wan eventually answers the moment they’re out of sight of the docks.

“Just keeping up appearances, Master,” Anakin says, switching to Basic, and gives Obi-Wan’s shoulder a final squeeze before dropping his hand.

“And making the local workers hate us helps _how_ , precisely?”

Anakin just rolls his eyes. “It would have been weirder if I hadn’t tried to haggle him down.”

“Even after accepting the terms to dock.”

“ _Especially_ then.”

Artoo trills agreement from behind them, and the curl of anticipation-affection-amusement gains pride-satisfaction-smugness.

Obi-Wan decides not to pursue it.

“This… is not what I expected when I saw our destination.”

Anakin takes the topic change in stride with an easy nod and another considering glance over the throng of sentients pushing them into the main thoroughfare of the station. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

Well, that’s one way to put it. Obi-Wan brushes a hand over his beard, silently cataloguing the amount and type of stalls cropping up the closer they get to the large, central area. “No blockade, no security droids, hardly any fuss over the registration—“

“I _do_ know how to fake a registration—”

“—and half of these booths are selling food.”

The thoroughfare spills into a cavernous forum, immediately easing the crush of people into streams of sentients cutting this way and that across a surprisingly orderly market. Along the walls, storefronts proclaim wares in at least three different languages, drawing customers of all kinds to the displays, while the wide causeway between is split by rows of stalls hawking everything from clothes to droid parts. And, indeed, scattered between every other option is a vendor with colorful drinks, steaming meats, or fresh-looking vegetables.

Anakin quirks an eyebrow. “Finally tired of ration bars?”

Obi-Wan gives him a withering look. “Fresh food stalls are usually _planetside_ —”

“Well, if you’re hungry, I’d recommend the deep-fried nuna legs.”

They whirl in sync, hands instinctively moving to where lightsabers normally hang—and stop.

“What?” Ahsoka demands with a smirk and raise of her eyebrows, arms crossed and hip cocked triumphantly. “Seriously, it’s actually pretty good.”

“ _Snips_!” Anakin dives forward, and Obi-Wan takes a step back from the overwhelming crash of love-relief-worry-guilt-sadness-joy-joy-joy that floods the bond.

“Whoa, whoa—!” Ahsoka dances back, startled and confused as she’s unceremoniously dragged into a tight hug. The wide-eyed look she sends Obi-Wan over Anakin’s shoulder is nearly comical. “Yeesh, you’d think you’d seen a ghost.”

Anakin’s hold tightens sharply. Obi-Wan gathers himself and steps closer, echoing the movement in the bond by delicately encouraging defenses Anakin hasn’t used in days back into proper alignment. Ahsoka hesitantly snakes an arm around the human clinging tightly to her, glancing back and forth between the two men as she settles into and finally returns the embrace.

“…it’s good to see you too, Master.”

Obi-Wan glances around, aware of the scene they’ve made and gently laying a hand on Anakin’s shoulder with a push of reassurance along the bond. “As deeply curious as we all no doubt are, I think it would be best to discuss this elsewhere.” He turns his attention to Ahsoka as Anakin’s grip slowly eases, prompting with a raise of his eyebrows: “I believe you recommended the nuna legs?”

Ahsoka takes a second to parse that statement, then makes a face.

“Ration bars, huh?”

### 19 BBY, 10th Month: Phindar Spaceport Cantina

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Ahsoka announces from across the booth.

Anakin snorts in open amusement, offering his former padawan a roll of his eyes and a shrug. He shifts his gaze expectantly to Obi-Wan, who pauses part way through cutting into a haunch of meat. Something seems to pass between them, she’s not sure what, but it’s the least concerning part of the scene.

“I see no reason to abandon all manners just because—”

“It’s a _nuna leg_ ,” Ahsoka cuts in, still staring at the fork and knife and the prim way her Grandmaster slices it from the bone.

Another snicker comes from her right, and Anakin gamely attempting to cover it with a sip of water. It doesn’t work. His amusement would be obvious to _anyone_ but it’s absolutely suffusing the Force around them like an eager, buzzing blanket. It’s not something Ahsoka ever anticipated having to make sense of, but, well, her life’s been a little weird lately; Anakin projecting strange stuff into the Force is pretty much par for the course at this point.

Obi-Wan’s expression is a mix of fondness, exasperation, and stubbornness. She’s used to seeing most of those things from him, but they all come out a little brighter than usual and, honestly, it just makes her all the more curious. What is going _on_ here? Then Obi-Wan finishes cutting his piece, stares Anakin straight in the eye and calmly draws out the action of removing the morsel from his fork, and Ahsoka drops her face into her hands with a groan. Some things don’t change.

The sound of Anakin choking on his drink drags her gaze back up and—okay, _that’s_ new. She’s pretty sure she’s only ever seen Anakin blush like that around _Padmé_ , who is obviously absent. The image of victory she’s expecting from Obi-Wan, meanwhile, is only vaguely present: his gloating losing the effect the longer he stares at his food instead of his former padawan.

Ahsoka narrows her eyes, looking between the two men, and clears her throat. They both startle and turn their attention back to her in the same eerie synchronization as earlier. “So are you going to tell me what’s _actually_ going on, now?”

Obi-Wan’s expression turns carefully blank, which is actually more normal, while Anakin glances between them. Then he turns back to Obi-Wan, saying nothing. Ahsoka turns her attention there as well. Obi-Wan looks back at Anakin. No one says anything and a familiar exasperation wells up.

“Hello!” She slams a hand down on the table, startling both into looking at her again. “Third person here.”

Obi-Wan, at least, has the grace to look abashed. It’s Anakin, however, that offers a sheepish: “Sorry, Snips.”

“Right.” She huffs and settles back into the booth.

“I am, admittedly, just as curious to find out why _you_ are here, young one,” Obi-Wan quietly offers to the table at large.

Ahsoka stares for a long moment, processing that, and immediately turns her attention to Anakin, instinctively tugging on the remnants of her padawan bond. “Really, Skyguy?”

Oddly, _both_ men give her the same look of surprise the exact moment Anakin catches that one habitual tug, and twines his Force signature around it on reflex. She doesn’t mind, but it’s a little distracting to have what was once an absent presence—lately nothing at all—returned to her redoubled.

“Anakin—”

“You honestly didn’t expect me to track you down?” Ahsoka interrupts with a wide-eyed blink.

Obi-Wan’s brow furrows and Anakin just blinks her own confusion back at her. Ugh, she’d forgotten what it was like to have the Chosen One plugged into her Force signature. She gives him a deliberate prod in their bond and he backs off with an apologetic raise of his hand.

“Why should we have?” Obi-Wan asks on a frown, keeping the three of them on topic, as usual.

“Uh, seriously, Master Kenobi?” She almost misses the slight flinch, but carries on regardless, because honestly, what the hell? “Look, it’s not like I _want_ to read all the rumors about you two, but when, completely out of the blue, _this_ guy—” she jabs a thumb at Anakin “—sends me a text that just says ‘We’re not Falling’ and _literally nothing else_ —”

“ _Force_ , Anakin.” It’s more of a sigh than anything with heat, even as Obi-Wan abandons his utensils entirely to scrub a hand over his face.

“What? We didn’t, though!”

“ _Naturally_ , I was concerned,” Ahsoka dryly finishes, feeling her ire simmer even as she projects it—just a little—to the man on her right.

“Naturally,” Obi-Wan echoes, giving Anakin a look somewhere between at-wits-end and murderous, which is fair, as far as Ahsoka’s concerned.

“Okay, okay, it’s not like I had a lot to go on, though!” Anakin defends, half to Obi-Wan before turning his full attention back to Ahsoka. “I just…I didn’t want you to hear something and think—”

“What? That the two of you ran off to Hutt Space to elope?”

Obi-Wan chokes on air.

Ahsoka grins, sharing the look with Anakin, who gives his drink a gentle push with the Force, no matter his snickering. Obi-Wan takes it with a glare (she can practically hear the reprimand he doesn’t give) and tries to clear his throat with small sips.

“Seriously, you wouldn’t believe what’s been on the HoloNet recently,” Ahsoka continues, gracious enough to give her Grandmaster a chance to recover himself. “Slow news since the Armistice, I guess.”

“Yeah, I—”

“Why is _anyone_ talking about it?” Obi-Wan finally presses, once he’s collected himself again.

Ahsoka shrugs. “The usual. ‘The Team’ went off planet, so someone posted the traffic recordings to the HoloNet, then someone _else_ leaked a memo from the Chancellor’s office asking after you. After that, there were a bunch of inquiries, but the Council refused to say anything about it. I don’t really know the details; I was skimming it all until a couple days later when I got a text message from the Outer Rim.”

Obi-Wan frowns, but it’s Anakin who asks with sudden intensity, “You tracked us down from my commlink?”

“What? No. Are you kidding me?” Ahsoka goes from surprise to affront so quickly, it actually sits Anakin back in his seat. She leans in, pressing her irritation-determination-worry towards him with the motion. “I barely managed to scrape together enough metadata from a single line of text to figure out you were in Separatist space! I spent a _week_ tracking down the original HoloNet node that you pinged when you sent me the galaxy’s most _useless_ text. Then there was—there was _nothing_. I’ve been waiting for _days_ to pick up something else. A text. A comm. Some evidence you were ever _here_ —”

“Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan interrupts, dispersing the mounting tension with a cool press of placidity she hasn’t felt since—well, for several months. Then, more surprisingly, his gaze softens, and a low undercurrent of care seeps into the Force. “It was not our intent to—”

“—disappear from Coruscant, send a terrifyingly cryptic text from Separatist Space, and completely abandon all contact?”

Obi-Wan’s wince is more pronounced this time. Well, _good_. It’s not like her year’s been particularly good to begin with, and thinking something had happened to them was not the best way to end it. He looks away for a moment, lips pressed together in a thoughtful tell she’s only seen from him behind closed doors, then the Force relaxes again and the cool placidity of a Jedi Master melts into a soothing balm instead. He refocuses, pointedly catching her gaze with his own and…she’s not sure what’s she’s seeing, but it’s dragging her heart into her throat.

“I apologize, Ahsoka, while I was unaware Anakin had… _sent anything at all_ …I should have handled this entire situation with more care.”

“I…” It’s difficult to keep the surprise and concern under control, but eventually her training wins out, and the emotions dissolve into the warm comfort surrounding them. Okay, reassessment time. Anakin sending her an update without Obi-Wan knowing: normal. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan is apologizing: not normal. She turns sharply to her old master. “What did you _do_?”

“What?” Anakin is wide-eyed and unprepared. “Whoa, hold up, what makes you think this was _me_?”

“Lived experience?”

“Oh come _on_ , Obi-Wan is at _least_ as likely to get into impossible situations—”

“Yeah, chasing _you_ down.” The banter quickly rights her back on to familiar ground, restoring her smirk and self-assuredness in a flash. “So come on, if you can’t tell me, you can just say so. I figured there was kind of a 50/50 chance this was either undercover or Mandalore all over again. So which is it?”

“…Honestly?”

They share another, tense look. Ahsoka is pretty sure there’s more going on, given the hum of activity at the other end of _her_ bond. She waits it out, though, returning to crossed arms and an expectant look.

Then Anakin grins and turns back to her directly. The sinking sensation barely makes to her sternum before he blurts, “Obi-Wan flipped a table at the Council and spirited me off Coruscant so we could elope in some Sith ruins.”

…

Ahsoka falls into the booth with a howl of laughter. “Oh…oh, _Force_.” There’s tears at the corner of her eyes and a twisting warmth in her gut. It hurts, but it’s good. A deep, sparkling humor she hasn’t felt in too long seizes her from within and makes her lean against the table for support. “I can’t believe—” she cuts off with a shake of her head, snickering into a free hand and trying to put herself back together enough to resume their conversation. “Ahh… I can’t believe you actually managed to keep a straight face.”

Anakin shrugs good-naturedly, sharing her mirth with a fond smile and an easy lean back in his chair. “Why not?” He raises his eyebrows pointedly and adds, “it’s the truth.”

She just shakes her head, finally calming her laughter with an airy wave for Anakin’s explanation and turns to Obi-Wan instead. “A little help here?”

He looks…. _decidedly_ uncomfortable, but after a moment the strange warmth in the Force recedes and the cool placidity she more associates with a Jedi Master takes its place. There’s a pause wherein he thoughtfully considers his hands again and then finally seems to settle on, “I do not recall a marriage—elopement or otherwise.”

Okay, not where she thought he’d start with that one, but amusing still. Maybe he’s in a good mood and just kraytspit at showing it? She shrugs in vague agreement. “Yeah, I mean, that does seem like the sort of thing you’d remember? Anyway—”

“And for the last time, Anakin, I _broke_ the table.”

He returns to his food.

Um. What?

Ahsoka blinks.

“Um, _what_?”

* * *

“I can’t _believe_ you two!”

It’s not the first time she’s said it. It won’t be the last, she’s so sure.

Artoo screeches his support of her consternation for at least the fifth time, rolling ahead to jab at the docking mechanism with more force than needed.

“ _Three months_. You lasted _three months_!”

A gangway extends out from the hangar floor to the nondescript freighter Anakin had insisted they return to once she’d gotten a clear confirmation that her master had not, in fact, been completely making things up. So she strides down the platform and punches in the unlock code completely without thought, not even realizing she’s inside until her foot brushes an unrolled meditation mat and—she can’t _do_ this. There’s a lump in her throat, something crawling through her veins, and no amount of desperate, deep breathing is releasing _any of it_ into the Force.

“Breathe with me, Padawan.”

Anakin is there.

Anakin is _here_.

The hand on the back of her neck is warm and familiar, tugging them closer, and this part is easy. This part she knows. Ahsoka lets her head fall forward and stillness washes over her. Their bond is a quiet, steady presence amidst the tumult, emanating the light it draws from each of them until the soft, cool glow sinks deep into her bones.

Inhale calm. The light grows. Exhale troubles. Her thoughts still and then disperse again.

They part as one, Anakin’s presence returned to a corner of her mind like a carefully cordoned-off bonfire. It’s new, this version of what had once been a hazy, indistinct thing, and judging by the furrowed brow, Anakin is checking it over just as much as she.

“…not your padawan anymore,” Ahsoka eventually answers, her tone fond in spite of the words.

Anakin just smirks, infinitely calmer himself, and brushes the side of her montrals as he pulls his hand back. “I’ve been reliably informed you never stop being someone’s padawan, so, sorry, Snips, but you’re stuck with me.”

She gives him an affectionate roll of her eyes, but the humor quickly dissipates once the words really sink into her thoughts. “Even with Obi-Wan?” The bonfire flares up for a second and he makes to pull away, but she snags his arm and steps closer before he can entirely write off the question. “Master—“

“So _now_ you’re my padawan?”

“Really?” The word is flat, but she can’t quite keep the undercurrent of care from their bond. “You’re really going to get on my case about something _you_ never stopped calling _your_ old Master?” He stiffens in her hold, but the bonfire in her head is a flustered spit of sparks where she expects an inferno, so she presses her advantage. “If you can spend your entire knighthood calling him that, surely I get a couple of years to slip up too, right?”

Anakin deflates on a sigh and shakes his head in defeat. “All right. All right, point made.” He glances down at her hand when she doesn’t immediately let go, and she waits, knowing she’ll outlast his patience. Stubbornness, now, that’s a toss up, but the fire is flickering, not roaring, so Ahsoka hedges her bets. “You just—I can tell you’re not…” He squints his eyes and for a moment she’s actually unsure if it’s in thought or if he’s watching something she can’t see. “You were very… sad?”

That’s new, but it’s honest at least, so she carefully lets go and settles back on her heels. “Well…yes. I suppose.” The Force around them is calm and…curious? No, that’s Anakin—again and as usual, really. Ahsoka nearly pulls a face, but finds it easier to pass her annoyance out into the Force this time, and focuses instead on what had caused her to get so overwhelmed in the first place.

“When I left, you told me…you said I was making a mistake—no, let me finish. You said that you understood why I felt I had to leave, but you still stayed. I thought I knew _why_ , but now I’m wondering…and I know it’s foolish but part of me is still…really…” She exhales in one, rough breath, scattering the building emotion out over the fire, expression turning wry when she realizes what’s left. “Sad.”

There’s a moment of silence, which is surprising until she realizes Anakin never stopped wanting to burst into the conversation and is still purposely holding himself back because he’s not sure she’s actually done. It’s kind of cute and makes her heart constrict beneath the memories of similar moments sprinkled between chaos, battle, and desperate fights for survival. Most people never get to see this side of her—crazy, unconventional, empathetic, heroic, _stupidly sweet_ —master.

Ahsoka feeds the memories to the flames and gives him a gesture to go ahead.

“It was a mistake to leave _us_!” Anakin predictably blurts with the worst possible wording he could have managed. “Kriff the Order, you belong with me and Obi-Wan. You gave them _everything_ and they just—they abandoned you completely and it wasn’t right and I shouldn’t have let you leave, but I thought…

‘Oh, kark it all, I don’t _know_ what I thought. Obi-Wan was basically the reason I could even think straight after you left and then the negotiations happened and I ended up kind of on the Council but not really and I just kept thinking something _else_ was going to happen and the next thing I know Obi-Wan just decided we were leaving and by then I wasn’t exactly going to argue, you know?”

It’s, well, a lot.

Ahsoka’s pretty sure she makes a vaguely concerned noise by the end, but raises a hand to forestall another outpouring like that. Anakin’s gaze is intense, but he _does_ stop. Crosses his arms, turns slightly away and throws himself against the back wall. Dramatic to a fault, but ultimately giving her the space she needs.

Honestly, it makes sense. Force knows she wasn’t any better in the immediate aftermath of her decision to leave. Anakin was _always_ more expressive than the other Jedi and she’d have to have been Force blind to miss his anguish when she turned away from—away from the Temple, but from him too. It hadn’t been easy for either of them.

And if she’s being completely honest with herself, part of her had been disappointed he’d stayed exactly where she’d left him.

Part of her had been _furious_ —with the Council; with the Jedi Master who found her and didn’t do enough to keep her; with the man who had looked after her with the same careful eye he’d kept on her own master, only to keep her at an arm’s length when she’d needed that consideration the _most_ ; and, ultimately, at the master who had saved her when she couldn’t save herself.

Who let her go when she needed to walk away.

It’s selfish and unbefitting a Jedi, but it’s true. She looks back to Anakin—staring intensely into the middle distance in an obvious effort to reign in the flames lashing higher in the back of her mind—and carefully removes the barriers on the newly reforged bond. His attention snaps immediately back to her, but she’s already made her decision, and tosses an entire bundle of conflicting emotion on to the pyre.

His eyebrows shoot up. “…Ahsoka?”

“It’s okay, Master.” It’s a small thrill to watch The Hero Without Fear tentatively straighten from the wall with an expression of hesitant confusion. She allows it to quirk her lips in a kind of tired half-smile. “It doesn’t really matter how we all got here, does it? So if you can forgive me for leaving, I suppose I can forgive you for staying.”

“Deal.” The fire roars with his grin, but she finds herself entirely unafraid of the heat, emotion, and sheer power radiating through their bond and out into the Force as they clasp forearms.

“…Seriously, though, your timing is _awful_. Couldn’t move it up two months?”

Anakin scoffs as they part. “I told you, that’s _not_ on me.”

“Yeah, and that reminds me, actually,” Ahsoka segues with all the alacrity of a hunter springing their trap, “when the _kark_ did Obi-Wan get added to your secret love life?” Watching Anakin choke in surprise is even _more_ satisfying than she’d anticipated.

“I—uh— _SNIPS_ —”

“Uh huh.” She grins through his sputtering, leaning forward again to prod him directly in the sternum. “C’mon, you _owe me_ so spill, Skyguy, because Force knows I’ll never get it out of Kenobi. Was it Padmé’s idea? I bet it was.”

Who knew Anakin’s eyes could get that round?

“Sithspit, _Padmé_!” The fire flares, sputters, and flickers wildly.

Ahsoka blinks, straightening instinctively. “Wha—”

“I completely forgot to _tell her_ —”

Anakin’s mental flailing is quickly matched by his dash for the front of the cabin—until Ahsoka catches him by the elbow. “Master, _what_?”

He immediately tries to shake her off. “There was so much going on, I just—”

“What do you _mean_ you haven’t _told her_?” Just when she thinks she’s caught up, he throws a spanner in the works.

“Well I didn’t exactly have a lot of time—”

“That doesn’t mean you can just— I thought—” Even months out of the Order, with everything out in the open, it’s difficult to get the words out. In her defense, none of it had ever been relevant until about ten minutes ago. “Padmé is good person—I thought you—Master Kenobi at _least_ should know better—”

“I know, I know, I just—it all happened really fast and it’s not like Obi-Wan was in the best shape—”

“That’s no excuse! You can’t just—just _add_ someone to a relationship!”

“What?”

“…right?”

Anakin stops trying to fight her hold and just stares at her.

Ahsoka hesitates, frowning in thought. “Actually, can you? I’m not…I don’t actually know if—”

“Snips, Padmé and I haven’t been together for _months_ ,” Anakin somehow manages to get out despite looking utterly gobsmacked the entire time.

“I’m sorry, _what_?” Ahsoka blinks.

“We’re not…we broke up about a year ago, Snips,” he finally sighs out, raking a hand back through his hair as he glances anxiously towards the communications console instead of meeting her gaze.

Instinctively, she tries the math. “So…you and Master Kenobi—”

“Yesterday?” Anakin keeps glancing between her and the console as if he can’t decide which fate he’s duty-bound to suffer through more.

Ahsoka lets go, her thoughts tripping over each other to make sense of this new information. “Let me—” She clears her throat. “Let me get this straight. You and Padmé broke up months ago, _neither of you told me_ , and pretty much nothing happened until _after_ you suddenly decided to _leave the Jedi Order_ basically just because Obi-Wan _told you to_?”

“As far as summaries are concerned, I’m afraid you have the right of it,” Obi-Wan announces as he steps into the cabin. He offers the same small, courteous bow he would have for interrupting them on Temple grounds. “Apologies for the interruption. I felt…”

“It’s fine,” Ahsoka accepts with an offhand wave for her anxious master and his newly-remembered dilemma.

Anakin darts to a spot right in front of the communications console. “Thanks, Snips!”

She just shakes her head and turns towards the man who had, until now, made himself scarce. “So. Got a few?”

“I think I can fit you in,” he says with a wry tone and that same, almost-smile he’s hidden behind a thoughtful brush of his beard for as long as she’s known him. It’s comforting to see something familiar amidst the chaos. He turns with a sweeping gesture towards the meditation mats. “Care to join me?”

Ahsoka chuckles and walks back over. “Why am I not surprised?”

Obi-Wan only lifts an eyebrow in response before gracefully dropping down on the nearest mat. Ahsoka follows suit to the sounds of Anakin muttering under his breath across the room and Artoo rolling over to offer his input on encryption protocols. Despite the casual banter, there’s an underlying feeling of not-quite-tension that registers the moment the two of them are seated across from each other. Ever the gentleman, Obi-Wan doesn’t say anything until they’re both comfortably seated, and she finds herself on the disconcerting end of The Negotiator’s calm, intent stare.

Then he extends a hand, palm up between them. “I know we don’t share a bond, however there is something I wish to show you, if—”

Her hand landing firmly in his own draws him up short. “Padawan of the Chosen One,” she announces with a cheeky wink to dispel the formality of the moment.

Obi-Wan huffs a small laugh and somewhere in the depths of her mind, flames crackle eagerly.

“Indeed you are.”

### 19 BBY, 5th Month: Coruscant, Jedi Temple, Council Situation Room Halls

“Master Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan pauses, turning towards the hall on his right. “Master Tholme,” he greets with a nod.

“Walk with me?”

He doesn’t frown, but it’s a near thing. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan inclines his head and sweeps away from his previously planned route, to join the old master instead.

“Of course.”

Tholme moves slowly, the stiff movements augmented by a cane in his right hand, and it sets their pace to a much slower one than Obi-Wan had anticipated.

Is he so obvious?

Obi-Wan slides his hands back into his sleeves, folding his arms in front of himself as they stroll, and turns his attention to the wide corridor around them. This high up in the Temple, there’s not much for decoration aside from the towering archways spanned with transparisteel. Instead of the warm stones, occasional statues, and lively greenery of the lower levels, there are only the fading rays of sunlight as they cascade through the Coruscanti skyline and tumble into empty halls.

“I did not realize you were on Coruscant.” He tries not to let his impatience trickle out in his voice. It’s more difficult than he’d like.

“Given current events, I am not surprised,” Tholme says in the same steady way and with the same keen aim he’s always had—slowed by injuries or not.

Obi-Wan inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Things have been…tense.” He’s not quite sure why they’re having this conversation, which worries him. What has he missed in the midst of this chaos?

Tholme’s expression shifts to be vaguely wry. “Still a penchant for understatement, it seems.”

A social call, then? With the Order’s unofficial spymaster? If they were only a venerated Master and a Councilor sharing the hallway on the way home, perhaps. But he knows Tholme. Not as well as Quinlan does, perhaps, but given the unproductive debriefing he just left…Obi-Wan finds himself shifting his gaze thoughtfully over the sunset view of Coruscant rather than keeping it on the man at his side.

Is Ahsoka somewhere out there?

The deep, angry throb of Anakin’s rage-betrayal-determination-fear-love in the back of his mind is muted at this distance. It helps, but the tangled knot never really vanishes. Not for the first time, he finds himself inclined to linger within the swirl of emotion. And, as with every time before, he carefully gathers up the urge and lets it slip into the Force with the calm care of the Jedi Master he’s supposed to be. It’s not as easy as it should be any more.

“No news, I take it?” Tholme murmurs, and Obi-Wan realizes he’s stopped walking somewhere along the way.

He sighs and just shakes his head. No point in denying it. It’s better he doesn’t know what either of them is up to, anyway. Stay in the background. Do what he can. It’s not much, but anything more would only hurt them both.

“It is…a difficult situation,” Obi-Wan eventually replies, turning back and nodding for them to continue. “I have faith Anakin is handling it.”

“You do?” If he didn’t know better, he’d think there was some level of amusement in the old master’s words.

“I do,” he says immediately, regardless. It’s the first answer he’s given that hasn’t taken any thought on his part.

“How many times have I said that just before chasing Vos down, I wonder?” Tholme shakes his head lightly. “The Master/Padawan bond is stronger, I think, than we like to give it credit for.”

“…Is that what this is about, Master Tholme?”

It’s Tholme that pauses then, setting his cane before him to steady himself, gaze thoughtful before it’s turned more analytically on the younger Jedi beside him. “Perhaps. It’s a strange lull we’re in, Councilor. For months—years now—we’ve been in a constant ramp-up. When this year began, our sources were nearly manic with leaks, tips and general gossip. Now, they are silent. You’ve seen the troop movements, the shift in the battle lines. I don’t need to repeat it.”

Obi-Wan inclines his head, worry falling to the wayside when the knot of mystery dangles before him. “The Separatists have been more defensively engaged for some time,” he agrees, almost in afterthought.

Tholme nods. “The War has cost us all a great deal—perhaps even the core of who we are as an order. It’s no surprise, then, to find ourselves in unrest. However,” he adds with a pointed look that keeps Obi-Wan in rueful silence, “I find myself troubled for entirely separate reasons.”

Obi-Wan internally struggles to follow, eventually allowing his confusion to show with a furrow of his brow. “What _does_ trouble you, then, Master Tholme?”

“The possibility that we’ve become so mired in all of this—the plots and intrigues, the people we’ve lost, the tenets we’ve abandoned—that we end up so consumed by the need to justify it all with a victory, we completely miss an opportunity to end the war at all.”

“One you expect will arrive soon, it seems?” Obi-Wan raises a thoughtful hand to his beard, stroking lightly as Tholme merely tilts his head a bit. It’s an intriguing thought on its own, of course, but the timing of it raises questions he would rather not contemplate. “I assume you have spoken with Master Yoda regarding this?”

Tholme’s lips quirk into a faint smirk. “You know very well I always debrief him before anyone.”

Of course.

Obi-Wan swallows against the spike of insult that lances deep, dragging it back from the raging bond and pushing it down, away from the Force. He doesn’t need Tholme—or any other particularly strong master—to sense the tangle of negativity that he himself hasn’t entirely sorted through. So he offers a shallow bow, murmurs a thanks for Tholme’s time and makes an excuse to leave before any of it can sift out.

Message received.

That’s all that’s really needed isn’t it? Somewhere out in the fading twilight of Coruscant, Ahsoka runs because she deserved better, Anakin chases because _he_ deserves better, and Obi-Wan watches because he has failed them both. He wonders, absently, if the Council is overestimating his ability to reign in Anakin, underestimating his padawan’s sense of duty, or simply scrambling to keep whoever they can.

They are remiss, he thinks, to believe they haven’t already lost too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### From The Authors:
> 
> Aaaaay, so we’re alive and well. Sorry for the week long hiatus, but as you all probably noticed, things have been super hectic lately! AuroraExecution has officially been moved to Work From Home for the foreseeable future and w3djyt can’t go floating between cafés to write, so things have gotten a little squished in terms of living space, but we’re keeping sane via ObiKin.
> 
> Time will tell if this is a valid strategy. ^_^;
> 
> Regarding the story directly — I know I said Padmé would show up soon, but I think we can all agree this is a fairly long chapter as is. If you’ve seen my flailing on Tumblr, you’ll understand my difficulties. So basically, everything that was supposed to go in this chapter is probably going to end up in three. m(￢0￢)m
> 
> I just couldn’t bring myself to take more time from Ahsoka. If you consider the timeline, I think you’ll agree she’s more than justified. ＿φ( °-°)/
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * Battle of Sundari  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn’t
>   * _Separatist Movements abruptly change_
>   * Ahsoka’s Trial / Leaving The Order  
>  _Tholme tells Obi-Wan to keep his lineage in check_
>   * General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatist  
>  <Shatterpoint> (obviously this never happened in Canon, but it basically replaces all of Anakin’s bad decisions post Ahsoka so we’ll call it a shatterpoint)
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin take a vacation to Yavin 4
>   * _Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at Phindar Spacestation_
> 

> 
> **MULTIPLE YEARS PASS (ﾉ´ｰ´)ﾉ**
> 
> **Current Year**
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
> 



	5. In Which Palpatine Gets Left On Read

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waifu Wine Pairing: “Like A Prayer” by Madonna  
> Weeb Bonus Track: “Vanilla” by Gackt
> 
> The galaxy stops for no man: Jedi or Sith. It does, however, allow for pitstops.

### 19 BBY, 10th Month: Phindar Spaceport, Short Term Hangar

Ahsoka breathes out slowly, drawing her hand back as they break the meditation together. She doesn’t immediately open her eyes, however, and instead lingers in the Force just out of reach a few moments longer.

“…I already figured it out, you know.”

Obi-Wan feels himself smile more than wills it, acknowledging the misplaced notion of pride before passing it into the Force. “Nevertheless, you deserved an explanation…and an apology.”

She shakes her head lightly and only then opens her eyes, matching his gaze with a steady one of her own. “I had my explanation the moment the Armistice was announced.”

“But not your apology.”

Ahsoka smiles then, a small halo of warmth emanating from her Force signature. “Thank you, then, Master Kenobi.”

His chuckle breaks the gentle mood, livening it with care and affection. “Please, Ahsoka. Just—”

“Obi-Wan!” Anakin’s eager interruption tumbles over his own words, along with the man himself plopping on to the mat beside him, utterly destroying any lingering tranquility. As usual.

Obi-Wan shares an amused look across the way and switches his attention, as demanded. “Yes, Anakin? How is the Senator?”

“Padmé wants to talk with you,” he dutifully announces, pointing back towards the console he’s abandoned and the patient image of Amidala, face partly obscured by an elaborate headdress, hovering in blue lines above it.

Several things occur to Obi-Wan at once, but then Anakin presses their lips together and all he manages to distinguish is a general sense of foreboding. Then, no thought at all. His surprise must be evident, given Anakin’s quick retreat to glance at him, chuckle, and then give him another, quicker peck before standing up.

“C’mon, Snips, those two can talk _forever_ and I’ve got something to show you,” Anakin declares with a broad grin while offering his hand to his padawan.

Obi-Wan manages to recover _some_ dignity before they abandon him to what is likely to be one of the most uncomfortable conversations he’s had in his life. The veneer of calm isn’t nearly enough to face a Senator, but perhaps it will withstand a friend? He doesn’t know, but rises from the floor regardless and heads to the communications console.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting, Senator Amidala — have we pulled you away from something?”

Padmé’s expression is so carefully neutral, she could be sitting on the High Council. “Rest assured, this is hardly the first time Anakin has pulled me away from important proceedings on this comm.”

Obi-Wan’s wince is sympathetic. “I can imagine.”

Her eyes narrow. “Now, I believe I deserve to know _precisely_ how long this has been going on.”

That, at least, he can manage. “I believe we have been gone—”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi.” The tone of her voice, icy and determined, halts his words before she finishes raising her hand for silence. “Anakin has already told me that story. What I need to know from you is how long you have had _designs_ on your _padawan_.”

A choked noise escapes before he can bring a hand up to clear his throat. “I — Senator, surely you don’t—”

“Your _answer_ , Councilor.”

“Never!” _Force_ , what was he _supposed_ to say to that? “I’m not… entirely sure I have any _now_? Padmé—”

“I _just_ spoke with him.”

“Senator, I am not saying _nothing happened_ ,” because, obviously, Anakin is going to tell her _everything_ regardless of Obi-Wan’s personal preferences and he probably should have expected this, but it doesn’t make the reality any _easier_. “I am only stating none of it was according to any plan of my own.”

Her expression turns critical. “That’s a _little_ different from, and I quote, ‘Master flipped a table at the Council and ran off with me’.”

He coughs politely into a hand. “I may have…caused negative things to happen to Temple furniture, however I can assure you no attacks were made.”

Her eyes narrow, but she seems to take the information in stride. Well, after several years of Anakin’s furtive calls from the front lines, this is probably much easier to deal with, all things considered. “And the disagreement?”

“A personal one.”

“Because you’re sleeping with him?”

“No!”

She arches an eyebrow imperiously. “You broke a table and kidnapped your padawan but it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact the two of you have been—”

“We have _not_!”

“Kenobi, you _just told me_ you slept with him.”

“ _Yesterday_!” Hope-cheer-love encircles him suddenly and it’s training alone that keeps him from spinning around to find its source. It absolutely does not help the heat creeping into his cheeks.

Padmé looks skeptical, but she does pause long enough to wait for details.

Inhale calm. “Just…just yesterday.”

He watches Padmé watch him and reminds himself that the woman staring him down is not merely concerned, nor in any way spurned. Reminds himself that he counts her a friend, for whatever that is worth now, and respects her discernment even when they have—often—disagreed. Reminds himself that she asked for him when she wanted clarification.

“…There was _nothing_ going on before yesterday?”

Obi-Wan presses his lips together to keep himself from reacting, forcing himself to think through his answer instead. It’s not something he’s had to do in _years_ , but between the events of the past few minutes and those of the past few days, reminding himself to slow down can only be beneficial. Eventually, it’s enough.

Exhale troubles.

“I am certain. More importantly, _Anakin_ is certain—”

Her expression hardens. “Obi-Wan, you _raised him_ ; he is _obviously_ going to be certain about _you_.”

“Senator Amidala, I both understand and appreciate your concerns in this matter; indeed, I share them.” Obi-Wan raises a hand in a bid for time and shifts to hold her gaze before continuing. “So please understand that Anakin’s well-being has been my _only_ concern in all of this. My decision to leave was predicated _solely_ upon it.

“I give you my word, for whatever it is still worth, that nothing happened between us before yesterday.” The formal words help him regain his footing separate from the wash of warmth-affection-faith that seems to exist somehow permanently around him. He draws a breath against the bond’s steady support and adds, more quietly, “Nothing would have _ever_ happened had Anakin not…made certain decisions entirely without my input.”

There’s hardly more than a few seconds of silence after his words before Padmé sighs and settles back from the camera. “For a man who dislikes politicians, you certainly sound like one.”

“My dear, there is no need for insults.”

The last of the tension breaks with Padmé’s soft laugh. “Conceded,” she says, a dismissive wave of her hand pushing aside her previous concerns. “I’m glad to hear we share the same concerns, and will leave you to deal with them.”

“Appreciated.”

“…And you?”

“Pardon?” He blinks slightly, entirely unprepared for the question.

“Are _you_ okay with…with all of this?” Padmé leans closer, frowning lightly in open concern. “Anakin can be overwhelming. Emotionally.”

Oh, Sith Hells, _no_. Somehow, Obi-Wan manages to curb the internal spike of panic away from the bond entirely—sheer force of will, perhaps. “I am…perfectly fine, Senator.”

Her expression turns softly amused, as if she wants to be but isn’t sure she should show it. “My apologies, Obi-Wan,” she finally settles on. “If you don’t want to discuss it, just say the word.”

Relief. He tries not to flood the Force bond with it, but some makes it through regardless. “No apologies necessary, thank you.”

She waits another moment and then, satisfied with his decision, switches topics. “Anakin didn’t mention where you are and for all our sakes I will not ask, however—”

“I can assure you, we have _only_ left the Order.” Obi-Wan finds himself a little dismayed at the strength of his words, but plows on before he can think about and display his discomfort. “If the Republic needs us—if _you_ need us, of course, we’ll help.”

“So you _have_ left,” she breathes. “I assumed that was just a rumor.”

“Unfortunately not.”

“Is this…if it’s not because of a relationship, is it because of Ahsoka?”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows raise in open surprise. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Anakin said she was with you,” Padmé says, then pauses to choose her words. “I may not have been with him during all of it, but it doesn’t mean I wasn’t _there_ , Obi-Wan. Even without…everything that was once between us, I could tell how much he wanted to go after her. I’m fairly certain _you_ are the only reason he did not.”

“Perhaps not in the way you think, but I have heard the sentiment before,” Obi-Wan murmurs from behind a thoughtfully placed hand. “At the time, I had hoped training her would also train him to learn how to let her…to let _attachments_ go.”

Padmé’s decisive snort is damning.

Obi-Wan raises both hands in open surrender. “Obviously, I have since changed my position on such matters.”

“Obviously.”

They share a quiet moment, allowing each other a moment to collect their own thoughts once more. It’s difficult to tell beneath the makeup and ornamentation, but by the way Padmé’s eyes narrow slightly and the tug of her lips, a measure of worry slowly becomes clear. “What aren’t you telling me?”

For a politician, it’s surprisingly blunt. “Nothing intentionally withheld.”

“So a Jedi thing,” she concludes, entirely unsurprised.

Obi-Wan’s lips twist in a grimace. “Indeed.”

Her expression turns strangely wry. “Master Kenobi, you know very well how limited my understanding of the Order is, but I think, perhaps, you also misjudge my intentions here.”

It’s not the direction he expected this conversation to take, and his eyebrows raise to show it. “Do I?”

“You do,” she says with finality, and raises her chin as she continues. “The two—no, the _three_ of you have saved my life in more ways than I can remember, and I have had very little chance to ever repay—”

“You have no debt t—”

“I am not finished.”

Obi-Wan’s jaw clicks shut before he processes the action.

Padmé’s lips twitch with amusement, but she doesn’t comment further. “As I was saying. I consider the three of you friends. The _three of you_ , Obi-Wan Kenobi. I like to think I receive a similar consideration, but you are Jedi, or were, and I respect that, so I did not act on it as I may have otherwise. It does not mean I have ever been unwilling to protect you as you have often done for me.”

Here, she pauses and huffs a small laugh, shaking her head in a delicate way to minimize the swing of dangling ornaments.

“You know, there was a time when Ani and I talked about what we’d do after the war ended,” Padmé begins again, softer and in the tones of someone sharing an embarrassing secret. “He never seemed to make any plans about what to do regarding the Order. I probably should have known then, but—” She shrugs, the small movement under the heavy robes seeming all the more wistful. “I thought I knew better than he did. I was the planner, after all. So I planned.

“I planned for every contingency. I planned for the fallout. I thought I understood what it would mean. I thought he could walk away. I thought…he has no family, barely any connections, he lives this mystical, monastic life, and yes, the Order has all these rules and precepts and rituals, but obviously, once everything settled down, we could too and he could leave all that behind. And even then, when I was completely love-drunk and naive—even _then_ I realized very quickly that all my plans would mean absolutely nothing if they did not leave room for you.”

Obi-Wan’s gentle amusement tangles somewhere deep in his throat, coming out as a cough carefully deflected into his hand. “Senator— Padmé, I assure you—”

“And then one day,” Padmé continues, utterly bowling over his attempt to interject, “he came home, bright-eyed and rambling about being assigned this ‘completely reckless’ padawan learner. At first, I couldn’t even tell if he was happy or upset. I figured it out quickly enough, though, and suddenly there was this _other_ person I had to incorporate into the plans, and I realized…

“I was wrong.” She parts her hands in a broad, open gesture, catching and holding Obi-Wan’s gaze with her own. “Anakin always had a family: people who care deeply for him, and who I too grew to care for just as much. People I have failed to protect before.” Her gaze shifts momentarily over his shoulder and then back again. “Tell me what I need to know to protect you now. All of you.”

She’s an easy woman to fall in love with, Obi-Wan realizes in that moment, rueful and humbled all at once. “I can hardly refuse,” he accepts with an incline of his head, outpouring relief-love-affection directly into the bond and receiving a buoy of faith-love-cheer in return.

“You could try,” Padmé teases with a fond quirk of her lips that threatens escalation if he does.

“I like to believe I choose my battles better than that, Senator,” Obi-Wan dryly returns.

“So I’ve heard. Your answer, then, General?”

A shrewd, shrewd woman.

“Getting straight to the point: the Council likely believes we have Fallen.”

“And have you?”

“No.” It’s easier, somehow. Obi-Wan almost wishes it wasn’t.

Padmé’s expression smooths a bit at the curt, immediate response. “I’ve offended you.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “You have not. It…” Obi-Wan nearly succumbs to the urge to cast a glance over his shoulder where he knows he’ll find two of the finest Jedi he’s ever had the honor of knowing engaged in an overly emotional display, but manages to release it into the Force instead. He still receives a brush of support across the bond, and tries not to think about the implications.

“I understand this is a difficult topic,” Padmé gently cuts in, gaze softening and tone sliding to intimate again. He can’t help wondering how much of it is experience, and precisely which kind of experience. “But if I’m to help, I need to know more details, Obi-Wan. No one has really explained what Falling even _is_ , for one thing. I know it’s _bad_ , though I’m not sure why, and that you were particularly concerned about it with regards to the relationship Anakin and I shared. I can infer that’s part of the reason the Council may assume —“

“I appreciate your candidness and delicacy with the topic, Sen— _Padmé_ ,” Obi-Wan interrupts with a hand held up in a request for peace. “To put it extremely simply, Jedi eschew attachments out of the belief that they will lead to the Dark Side of the Force. To Fall is to succumb to the call of the Dark Side, to…” He pauses, visibly searching for the words to describe something so visceral to someone who has never and will never experience it.

“It’s like drowning,” he eventually settles on, though his slight wince indicates the imprecise comparison. “If the Force is an ocean, the Dark Side is the riptide; if you aren’t vigilant, it will draw you under. Equally, it is entirely possible to drag others down with you. Instead of death, the person who Falls is consumed from within. They become…twisted. A sla— driven only by desire, possession, pain—”

“I think I get the picture.” It’s a relief to give up the explanation. “So the Jedi Council is already upset you left, but also fear your ‘attachment’ to each other has caused you to,” Padmé moves a hand forward in a generally encompassing manner, “…become unstable.”

“In the…barest of summaries, you have the right of it.”

“Do they get this concerned about every Jedi that leaves?”

Obi-Wan can’t quite withhold the dry chuckle that follows. “In general, Jedi do not leave.”

“They seemed pretty willing to let Ahsoka go.” There’s that durasteel edge in her voice again, a recrimination she won’t speak.

It’s heard all the same. Obi-Wan inclines his head in acceptance and says only, “If one is going to leave, it would normally be as a padawan, or before.”

Padmé’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t press the issue. “And the answer to my question?”

“Well, normally I would argue that Jedi have left the Order previously without so much concern, however given that the last person to do so was _Count Dooku_ —”

“I see your point.”

“You see part of it,” Obi-Wan corrects, his mouth forming a grim line as he catches her gaze. “Dooku is powerful and his Fall was a terrible loss, yes, but _Anakin_ …” He exhales slowly, finding himself at a loss for appropriate words again. “If they think he has Fallen…it’s the difference between losing a blaster and an orbital canon. Worse.

“One Jedi is manageable, even if they become Sith. Anakin isn’t _one Jedi_ —he is… so strong in the Force, so much a part of it, that if it were true and we had Fallen, I do not think for a second they wouldn’t do everything in their power to remove us both from the galaxy as swiftly as possible.” Obi-Wan pauses then, expression tightening as he adds, “I do not believe they would be remiss in doing so, either.”

* * *

By the time Obi-Wan extracts himself from the conversation, Anakin and Ahsoka have abandoned the cabin. He doesn’t blame them. Honestly, if he could have abandoned the damn thing too, he would have. Still, being alone for the moment allows him some time to collect himself after that particularly exhausting conversation.

He spends the time rolling and re-latching the meditation mats to the back wall. Whatever else may be going on, Anakin has never been any good at remembering to clean up — especially not when distracted. And Ahsoka is nothing if not distracting to her master. Obi-Wan gathers up that particularly unruly batch of emotions and gently disseminates them into the Force as he finishes the final latch.

The bond is more than enough to track them down, at least. Not that the cargo hold is a particularly distant locale, but—

“It’s going to take a lot of work, though, I think.”

“Yeah, but I—oh, all done, Master?” A pair of slim lightsaber hilts drop from midair as Anakin springs to his feet. Ahsoka follows suit, catching the twin hilts in her hands on the way up.

“Yes, I believe I have been _thoroughly_ interrogated, thank you,” Obi-Wan sighs, his gaze sweeping inclusively from Anakin, to Ahsoka, the sabers and back again. “…I am almost afraid to ask.”

Ahsoka grins.

“What?” Anakin’s demand is defensive, but the bond floats with a teasing buoyancy echoed in his smirk. “I couldn’t just let her run off without a weapon!”

“Two weapons,” Obi-Wan says, tone dry.

Anakin rolls his eyes. “You’re just upset because you didn’t know I was making them.”

“Admittedly, I am at a loss for when you had the _time_.”

“Please, I _still_ haven’t figured out what he did to the energy modulation circuits.”

“I made some improvements,” Anakin announces with an overt _preen_. “I wouldn’t tweak those circuits until later anyway. They’re helping the focusing crystals.”

“ _Where_ did you even _get_ crystals?” Obi-Wan _just_ found his calm, and somehow Anakin is disrupting it already.

Ahsoka looks to Anakin with a quirk of her brow. Anakin shifts back, hands raised in innocence. The sense of foreboding returns full force.

“ _Anakin_ —“

Ahsoka activates the twin blades with a practiced flick of her wrists.

Blood red snaps out in a crackle of tightly-restrained power.

…

“Anakin!”

“I can explain!”

“You gave her _red crystals_?”

“Well it’s not like Maul was using them anymore!”

Obi-Wan drops his face into his hands with a groan that practically rolls into the Force around them. Disbelief-concern-fear-anxiety rattles the bond. Anakin tucks into his master’s personal space before he can linger on it all too long, however, surging confidence-hope-uncertainty-affection back in imperfect, frantic counter.

“…I think we can work with it?” Ahsoka hesitantly adds, nevertheless deactivating the blades.

“Exactly!” Anakin hopefully seconds, his flesh hand squeezing Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Warmth and confidence radiates outward again, some into the bond and some into the Force. “At first I thought they were synthetic, so I was just using them as stand-ins during the design phase, but apparently they’re actual _kyber_ —”

“ _Anakin_ ,” Obi-Wan interrupts, finally relaxing now that the red glow has vanished from the cargo hold, but only into a sense of exasperated exhaustion. “You _left the Order_ and gave your padawan a pair of _red lightsabers_. The optics are not exactly _good_.”

Anakin and Ahsoka turn to each other, then look back at Obi-Wan and give him the same sheepish shrug in unison.

* * *

Ahsoka leaves after breakfast, with promises of a second rendezvous and updates on “the saber situation.”

Anakin is anxious, but proud, and lets her go with only a single, lingering hug, and Obi-Wan thinks, for the first time since her sudden appearance, that he may be able to handle this after all. Then, the Master/Padawan pair share a look and the next thing he knows, Ahsoka has both arms latched to his waist, squeezing tightly.

“I’ll miss you too,” she declares, as shameless as her master who is grinning at them both, but lets Obi-Wan go far sooner so she can cross her arms and lean in close. It’s probably meant to be conspiratorial? He’s not sure, but she drops her voice, so his focus switches automatically to listening to her next words. “You’re going to take care of him, right, Master Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan relaxes, emanating warmth and care on a reflex he probably should have stifled by now. It seems to settle the bit of tension he didn’t realize she had until she releases it, though, so he lets it continue. “You have my word, Young One.”

“Good.” She steps back, offering him a proper bow this time, which he returns in kind, and then marches back out of their lives with a casual wave.

### 19 BBY, 10th Month: The Hydian Way

They drop out of hyperspace by Botajef.

It’s easy enough to skim an anonymous connection to the holonet off the traffic that speeds through the junction. After that, it’s hardly a challenge to find the nearest node and tap it directly for all the personal updates they hadn’t dared to request, even on encrypted signals, from solidly within Separatist space. The results are…mixed.

Ahsoka, obviously, has left various text, voice, and video calls on both of their comms. Padmé, far more subtly, has left only one with Anakin: a simple, short video wishing him well. He smiles fondly at both batches, understanding everything Padmé doesn’t need to say in the same way she never said it during the war. It’s probably a good thing Ahsoka managed to find them before her messages did, however.

Obi-Wan’s expression doesn’t change while he skims his list of messages, but the bond twists with uncertainty, guilt and concern all the same. All this time he’s spent thinking he had a better handle on his stoic master, and still Anakin finds himself quietly amazed at the bubbling emotions Obi-Wan sifts through before carefully depositing them all into the Force. It’s a little mesmerizing to watch, leaving him to lapse into a silent, awed stare.

Several minutes later, Obi-Wan looks up from his contemplative browse, catches Anakin’s gaze, and the current tangle of emotion immediately melts into a painful sort of affection. He lets it simmer in the bond rather than sending it into the Force and Anakin breathes a fond laugh, curling his own warmth-love-happiness around the bundle.

“Find anything?”

Obi-Wan leans back from the pad with a stretch and shake of his head. “Nothing unexpected, at least.”

“Aw, someone had to try~”

The older man’s expression is wry. “Plenty of people tried, but aside from Ahsoka, very few left messages.” He shrugs lightly. “It’s for the best. You?”

Anakin’s demeanor slips through amusement to restful fondness. “Padmé. Ahsoka. Rex left a couple updates I downloaded for later. Mace didn’t even leave a message, can you believe that?”

Finally, a twinkle of humor returns to Obi-Wan’s Force signature. “Impossibly rude of him.”

“I know!” Anakin’s grin is echoed by a chirp of agreement from Artoo. He leans back as much as he can in the pilot’s seat. “Even the Chancellor found time to write—”

“The _Chancellor_ wrote you?” Obi-Wan interrupts and the spark vanishes into a frown.

“Well, yeah? I mean, he’s my friend and I completely ghosted him for two weeks,” Anakin explains, picking up the tablet he’d been using and spinning to show Obi-Wan the short, but clearly concerned text.

Obi-Wan glances it over briefly—too quickly to even skim it like he has the rest—and waves him off. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Ahsoka did mention his office made inquiries.”

Anakin shrugs. “Well, _I’m_ not surprised? I usually see him at least weekly when I’m planetside,” he offhandedly explains, withdrawing his pad and tapping ‘reply’. “With the Armistice, there’s really no reason for me to just drop out of contact.”

“…You’re not going to _reply_ , are you?”

The alarmed tone stops Anakin quicker than the words, and he glances up again, eyebrows raised. “Why _wouldn't_ I?”

Obi-Wan just sighs, and some kind of frustrated cloud of emotion drops into the Force without ever touching he bond. Anakin frowns, dislike, concern and betrayal clearly skimming the distance between them. Confusion and affection swiftly answers.

“Anakin, friend or not, he is still the Chancellor of the Republic.”

“So?”

Patience _radiates_. He never thought an emotion could _have_ an emotion, but somehow the patience feels exasperated and Anakin is so immediately and wholly distracted by this strange anomaly he almost misses Obi-Wan’s answer.

“The office of the Chancellor has some of the most heavily monitored correspondence in the _galaxy_ , Anakin. We would practically be putting up a sign pointing to our location.”

“…Right,” Anakin sighs in agreement, even if he doesn’t like it. “It just…I feel bad not telling him _something_ ; he sounds really worried. Maybe from a different jump? We have enough fuel for it.”

Patience-calm-affection-protection washes into the bond before Obi-Wan says, “And just how will it look when someone inevitably finds enough to prove he received a personal message from Separatist space?”

An aggravated huff echoes the sheer irritation that sweeps through Anakin, pushes into the bond, and is summarily passed into the Force. “All right, all right, point made.” He slumps, waving a hand in defeat, and cancels out of his reply.

### 19 BBY, 10th Month (Several Weeks Later): Unnamed Spaceport, Perlemian Trade Route

Anakin can only remember this amount of downtime as the calm before the storm.

Realistically, he knows there’s been plenty of times in his life spent _not_ frantically running from one end of the galaxy to another. He knows there were days of monotony, some painful, some healing. There were afternoon drills of Basic, nights of catch-up studying, and hours upon hours of form work, and none of it was squeezed between desperate fights for survival. None of it was reflected upon with a guilty calculation of how many people could have made it if he hadn’t taken the extra hour of sleep, the additional thirty minutes to train his padawan, the final ten minute mission prep.

The war has scoured so much of it from his mind that even now, wandering a middling waystation on a contested trade route, well-rested, at ease, with the only person in the universe he needs at his side, there’s still an undercurrent of jittery tension that never quite leaves. Obi-Wan has given him a questioning look more than once, of course, but he always meets it with an easy smile, a shrug, and a curl of appreciation. His master is a steady thrum of affection-caution and has been for days. Well, when he hasn’t been distracted.

Anakin has devoted a good deal of his new spare time to finding ways to be particularly distracting.

Which, of course, is _nice_. It’s not like he has _complaints_ , per se. It’s just that, well, his previous experience was a lot more…mutual? At least, Padmé had always insisted on an equal give-and-take when they did things, and that seemed completely reasonable. Still does. And it’s not like he fully expects Obi-Wan to be _exactly_ the same, or for their situation to be quite as frenzied as his time with Padmé was, it’s just…

Obi-Wan glances at him with a short brush of curiosity-affection for his wildly distracted thoughts, and, for the first time in several days, Anakin hesitates. Because, okay, he’s _not_ an idiot. They’re in the middle of some random spaceport, ostensibly on the run, pretending not to be the things and people they’ve been their entire lives—Obi-Wan isn’t even wearing his _robe_ —and there’s still a few people milling about in spite of the late afternoon hour and it’s maybe not the best time to bring this sort of thing up.

But…

It’s Obi-Wan’s fault, really.

“… Anakin?”

Sure, it takes him some time to process things after the fact. Of _course_ it does. What man doesn’t get…considerably distracted by certain things? Kriff, even Obi-Wan can (eventually) be convinced into a quickie, or so he’s learned in the past couple of weeks. Which is also, unfortunately, the problem. It’s _always_ fast and, lately, mostly one-sided. And, yes, the blowjobs are…appreciated? _Really_ appreciated. He always knew his master had a remarkably talented tongue, but lately he’s beginning to think he never really gave the man enough credit in that regard.

A spike of suspicion drags Anakin from his musings back to the present where Obi-Wan stands, watching him as carefully as he would a skittish beast he’s not entirely sure won’t pounce him. Not for the first time, Anakin remembers that the amazing new input the bond provides is a two-way thing, and decides to just roll with it.

“Master, do you _not_ like blowjobs?”

Suspicion is immediately replaced with alarm-embarrassment-attraction-guilt, and Obi-Wan admirably attempts to keep the majority of it from showing while shoving the rest rather hastily into the Force. “Anakin, that is hardly—this is not the time nor the place for—”

“It’s not like we’re doing anything _else_ , or around anyone who gives a damn,” Anakin logically interrupts, gesturing broadly to the largely empty hallways around them.

Obi-Wan relaxes minutely, giving a small sigh and raising a hand to his beard in the process. “Still. We have business and—”

“So you _don’t_?”

“I didn’t say—”

“So you _do_.” Anakin steps closer. They were already walking side by side, so it puts him directly into Obi-Wan’s personal space as the older man displays his stubborn streak and doesn’t move. “Every other time I bring it up, you just distract me. Which is nice, don’t get me wrong—I mean, who _doesn’t_ like blowjobs? And you’re _really_ good at it.”

“ _Anakin_.”

“But Padmé says reciprocation is important.” The now familiar streak of hot embarrassment colors their bond as Obi-Wan looks sideways and around and really anywhere that’s not Anakin’s face. “So I’d get it if you just didn’t _like_ them. Well, I wouldn’t, but I’d deal with it? But you _do_ like them, right?”

“Ana—”

“ _Right_?”

“ _Force_ Anakin, yes!” Flustered exasperation flies into the air and the Force equally as Obi-Wan tries to take a step back.

Anakin follows, guiding the movement with the grace of a predator. “So if you like them, why not let me…” Anakin clears his throat meaningfully. “…’return the favor’?”

“It’s—it’s not a _favor_ , Anakin—” A step back.

A step closer. “You know what I mean.”

Another to the side and back. “We should be—”

“—more open with each other?” Anakin smirks, adjusting direction again, and prowls after.

Obi-Wan somehow manages a withering look while getting backed into an alleyway by his former padawan. “That is _hardly_ the problem.”

“So if it’s not a matter of being open,” Anakin says, stepping closer. “And it’s not because you don’t _like_ it.” Obi-Wan steps back again, and promptly collides with a metal wall. “What is it?”

“I—” Obi-Wan clears his throat, a tangled knot of attraction-guilt-concern tumbling into the bond. “They’re not…something you’re exactly…familiar with, Anakin.”

“If _that’s_ all—” Anakin’s hand lands against the wall, effectively blocking Obi-Wan from easily returning to the larger hall. “I can’t get familiar without practice, right?”

“This is _not_ the place to discuss this!” The words are hissed, anxious, and entirely undermined by the sudden lash of _interest_ that has joined the amalgam of emotion slipping into the bond.

Anakin grins. “Who said I was going to _discuss_ anything?” Undoing waist ties, it turns out, is a skill that greatly benefits from practice.

“Anakin! You _can’t_ be serious!” Obi-Wan whisper-yells, alarm-lust-embarassment-interest rolling over one another as he glances frantically towards the alley entrance.

Excitement-success-attraction echoes back as Anakin leans in, brashly shoving his hand down through a loosened waistband. His smirk deepens with the choked back hiss of his name that follows. A hand makes it to his hip as his lips meet Obi-Wan’s and the sensation of alarm pulsing through their bond bleeds to carnal interest instead. So, as in all things, he presses his advantage.

Anakin moves quickly, no matter the heady distraction of a skilled tongue parrying his own. Obi-Wan is a master of redirection, no matter his pearl-clutching, and Anakin knows a stalling technique when he sees it. Still, it’s nice to indulge, if only for the time it takes to loosen clothes just that little bit more. He breaks the kiss as Obi-Wan’s breath hitches, hips rolling forward to press a newly freed erection into his hand. Victory sails through the bond and Anakin knocks the hand from his hip to settle on his knees instead.

< _Anakin_.> Alarm slices through the more pleasant emotions, but falters swiftly to lust when Anakin looks up to hold Obi-Wan’s gaze.

“You just need to tell me what to do, Master,” he murmurs, lips brushing over heated flesh enough to feel the twitch his words cause.

“ _Force_ —” Obi-Wan’s gasped words are cut short by a choked back moan when Anakin oh-so-carefully tastes his newfound prize. Only then does Obi-Wan finally manage to wrench his gaze back to the entrance. “We— we can’t do this here, Anakin.”

“Sure we can,” Anakin hums back, just slightly muffled by the flesh at his lips. The shiver he receives in response is all the feedback he needs to brush eager lips down the stiffening length.

“You have— ah— more than— made your point.” Obi-Wan twists in his hold, gaze turned away, but attention clearly on the tongue laving a sloppy path from tip to root. He manages to bite back a groan, but the clear jolt of arousal makes it through regardless. “We should…take this elsewhere— _Anakin_.”

Yeah, Anakin’s pretty sure there’s never going to be a more attractive sound than the hitch of breath between words when Obi-Wan is desperately aroused and trying to speak anyway. Thus emboldened, he gives the thick length a pump with one hand, casually signing ‘keep watch’ with the other. The same sort of almost-groan escapes into the bond rather than the air—led by a push of indignance—and is promptly subsumed by pleasure-want-heat when Anakin leans forward, sucking as much of Obi-Wan’s erection into his mouth as he can at once.

Suddenly, there’s a familiar hand in his hair, tightening, and tugging back urgently. It’s nice, but there’s a sense of alarm-concern-reprimand that drags him back and off with a soft pop. Above him, Obi-Wan leans back, flustered, concerned, and horribly, horribly aroused. Anakin could get used to this.

“You have to— you can’t just—just—” There’s a strangled sound in his throat, which, okay, a new contender for the best sound in the galaxy has just been found, thank you. Then a hazy jumble of thought—the sensation of something in the throat, discomfort, coughing.

Ah. Anakin smirks up at his flushed master and leans up again—slowly, this time—before carefully slipping his lips over the head of Obi-Wan’s erection. He pauses then, lapping at the tip until he can tuck his tongue up beneath the edge of the foreskin—another, sharper tug at his hair pulls him back just before Obi-Wan’s hips thrust forward. This time, the groan finally escapes into the air and a sharp thrill rolls up Anakin’s spine.

Before Obi-Wan can get another word in edgewise, Anakin glances up again and, with a wink, slides his hand down the hot length, swallowing after. His master sinks back against the wall with a strangled moan. It’s a little uncomfortable, sure, but a little bit of strain on his jaw is worth the delicious way the older man tenses, cups his head, and tries so hard to keep still, keep watch, find _some_ control. Anakin hums his pleasure and presses his tongue up along the underside. He may not have done this before, but he _does_ pay attention.

The hand in his hair tightens again, pleasure suffusing the bond. Obi-Wan’s gaze flits away briefly, Anakin swallows for attention and nearly misses the quick motion the older man makes with his free hand, shaky and abrupt, before it slaps back to the wall for support. Blue gaze returned to his own, Anakin slips back along the thick erection stretching his lips until he can catch a quick breath. The sudden return of air makes Obi-Wan twitch, trembling in his grasp. Anakin gives another pump with his hand and dives forward again for more.

It’s a little too eager, maybe, and he should have remembered the warning, but it’s so hard to refrain when every risk is rewarded with a low groan and restrained, shallow thrusts. The wash of lust spikes every time he flicks his gaze up, and each experimental swallow grants another tug of his hair until a low groan radiates from his own throat down the thick length making his jaw ache from the effort needed to just keep _going_. It’s such a delicious strain—wanting to drag more in, but being constantly reminded of his own limits—that he instinctively moves his other hand to Obi-Wan’s hip, shoving him back against the wall with the unyielding strength of his mechano-arm just so he can swallow as far down as he possibly can.

The bond pulls taut in sync with the heat-pleasure-tension radiating from every inch of Obi-Wan. Anakin shifts on his knees, his own pants desperately tight and a mite uncomfortable, but easily ignored when his distraction is the way Obi-Wan trembles in his hold. Each bob of his head brings a soft, bitten-back curse from the older man, but he doesn’t turn away again. Better. Another moan catches in his throat—and the hand in his hair jerks with a sharp warning.

< _Anakin_ —>

He’s not quite fast enough, barely swallowing a mouthful before turning away with a cough and gasp for breath.

“ _Force_ — Anakin—” Contentment-concern-lasstitude.

“‘m fine, I’m—” He breaks off with a hoarse, excited noise from somewhere in the back of his throat, and sits back on his heels. “Good?”

Fond disbelief rolls over the steady thrum of satisfaction. Obi-Wan breaks eye contact long enough to drop his head back against the wall, draw a long, slow breath, and fumble his way back to serenity. Each second that passes inflates the smug pride radiating from Anakin until he gathers enough of his wits to remember the rest of his manners and carefully goes about resettling Obi-Wan back into his trousers.

“…Was that—”

“Yes,” Anakin hums as he swiftly re-wraps hastily loosened waist ties. “It was _entirely_ necessary.”

Obi-Wan makes a disconcerted sound in the back of his throat, but doesn’t interfere with the tug of his shirt and the adjustment of his belts. “You have…an interesting definition of _necessary_.”

“You _like_ my definitions, Master,” Anakin says with a wink when Obi-Wan finally drops his gaze forward again.

“Sometimes I wonder.”

* * *

The comms station is busier than the rest of the spaceport. Understandable, since many of the people not merely stopping for fuel are likely just stopping in for the stronger communication array. This close to the end-of-year festivities, the holonet is likely flooded and more traditional forms of communication limited to priority messages. It’s part of the reason they waited so long to venture out again, so Anakin’s not exactly _surprised_ to see so many people crowded into public terminals, but it’s a new experience having to wait behind them.

Thankfully, somewhere around the local dinner time, things thin out and a comm booster opens up in one of the more inconspicuous spots. Really, his sense of timing was _clearly_ superior, given how they’d been able to spend at least _some_ of their waiting time. Obi-Wan shoots him a dour expression when he catches the thought and Anakin is hard pressed not to stick his tongue out in return. The flush that the mere notion and subsequent reminder brings is more than welcome, though.

“Shouldn’t you be checking arrivals?” Obi-Wan huffs, turning from his unruly lover to focus on establishing an anonymous connection between the console and his personal commlink.

“I’m sure she can find us on her own,” Anakin hums, nevertheless glancing over his shoulder at the reminder of their primary reason for returning to more well-known space.

“And _I’m_ sure you’re going to _burst_ if you don’t expend some energy before then,” Obi-Wan dryly retorts, without even looking up from his self-assigned task.

Anakin rolls his eyes and cuffs the back of Obi-Wan’s shoulder, but doesn’t refute the words. “ _Fine_ , but you better keep the line open until I get back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### From The Authors:
> 
> Padmé’s back! (゜▽゜;) Also, as promised, we bring you Anakin’s-never-ending-quest-for-sex. He’s got to make up for last time, you know? Also, this chapter totally led to my wife and I having an intense debate over which method Obi-Wan uses to keep his pants up. So, you know, #JustFanficThings…
> 
> Anyway, we’ll finally wrap up the Spaceport boogaloo in the next chapter ( promise! ) and after that it’s full speed on to the present again! (Do you even remember it? Ahah… (；๏д๏) )
> 
> #### An Important Note On Calendars
> 
> So Star Wars has an interesting history with calendar systems, which is to say there’s either a shitload in use at any given time, a generally accepted one from the RPG, a couple other well sourced ones from the KOTOR series, etc… etc… OR you go with Disney canon and it’s literally just the same as the Gregorian one we use. Since that last one is boring as hell, we’ve basically plotted things according to the Galactic Standard by around 23 BBY. ( AKA: The fun one. )
> 
> This Means, [As Per Wookiepedia](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Galactic_Standard_Calendar):
> 
>   * 60 seconds = 1 minute
>   * 60 minutes = 1 hour
>   * 24 hours = 1 day
>   * **5 days = 1 week**
>   * **7 weeks = 35 days = 1 month**
>   * **10 months + 3 festival weeks + 3 holidays = 368 days = 1 year**
> 

> 
> Why should you care? Because most of this story so far has taken place in the last two months of 19 BBY (months 9 and 10). To the best of our combined digging, one of the festival weeks ( Stars ) takes place between months 8 and 9, which celebrates interspace travel and therefore would have made it more difficult for anyone to tail them, if the Council is as concerned as Obi-Wan thinks they might be.
> 
> Likewise, the final scene ( and next chapter ) takes place in the second half of month 10, meaning the last couple of weeks in the year. When we hit 18 BBY, there’s going to be a week long festival for the New Year. It is also, per our timeline, the first time in four years there hasn’t been an _active conflict_ for New Year’s. So just tuck that into your caps going forward. d(-_^)
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * Battle of Sundari  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn’t
>   * Separatist Movements abruptly change
>   * Ahsoka’s Trial / Leaving The Order  
>  Tholme tells Obi-Wan to keep his lineage in check because shit’s getting real
>   * General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatist  
>  <Shatterpoint> (obviously this never happened in Canon, but it basically replaces all of Anakin’s bad decisions post Ahsoka so we’ll call it a shatterpoint)
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin take a vacation to Yavin 4
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at Phindar Spacestation and are found by Ahsoka
>   * _Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at an unnamed spacestation on the Perlemian Trade Route_
> 

> 
> **MULTIPLE YEARS PASS (ﾉ´ｰ´)ﾉ**
> 
> **Current Year**
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
> 



	6. In Which Anakin Buys A Party Bus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waifu Wine Pairing: “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge
> 
> In trying to cover their asses, Obi-Wan remembers none of this was planned and Anakin keeps adopting people. At least they have some friends in high places?

### 19 BBY, 10th Month (Final Weeks): Unnamed Spaceport, Perlemian Trade Route

  
Obi-Wan looks _good_.

It’s the first thing that pops into her mind when Padmé answers the call, one hand lingering over the “accept” button for a moment as it processes. They exchange pleasantries and she finishes settling into her chair, watching him more thoughtfully than she’d intended. It’s been two days since the start of his proposed timeframe for this conversation. He knows she’s spent those days doubling back to her home to wait through the same block of time, and he apologizes for it, even though she’d accepted the arrangement in the first place.

They’ve been at war for _four years_ ; Padmé is more than aware how a little bit of caution goes a long way, but more than that, it’s…comforting. Obi-Wan has always been polite. A bit sarcastic, and perhaps more stubborn and sharp than Jedi would like, but always _polite_. The last time they spoke, he just mostly looked exhausted.

“You look well.” It slips out before she can help it, but his blink of surprise drags a genuine smile from her all the same.

“As do you, Senator,” he speedily recovers.

Padmé rolls her eyes lightly. “ _I_ have the power of makeup,” she dryly retorts, earning a crinkle of amusement at the corners of his eyes. “ _You_ look like you finally got to sleep for once.”

“I suppose I have, at that.”

There’s something undeniably _warm_ in his voice and, honestly, she’s kind of surprised she didn’t see this coming sooner. “Good,” she concludes with a sharp nod, and then reaches over to activate one of the holopanels on her desk, drawing up the relevant information. With Anakin, maybe, she could linger in the friendly banter, but Obi-Wan — no matter the ease of his stance and the calm he radiates — will not appreciate the small talk, no matter how genuine.

A future goal, maybe.

“I have some suggestions.”

Obi-Wan nods thoughtfully, and although the detail is better on the boosted signal, she can’t quite make out any other information. If she’s being entirely honest, it probably wouldn’t matter even if they were talking in person. The Jedi Master is not normally an easy man to read. Well, former Jedi Master. As if _that_ hasn’t been a headache on its own.

One mess at a time, she reminds herself, and flicks the document she has open to start a transfer. On the other end, Obi-Wan glances down and reaches over to accept it before arching an eyebrow back at her. “This is?”

Padmé lets herself smirk, just a bit. “A marriage contract.”

To his credit, Obi-Wan restrains his reaction to a raise of his eyebrows. Then, after a beat: “I suppose I should have expected as much.”

Well, his expressiveness was fun while it lasted. She gives a light shrug. “Technically, it’s the naval paperwork to recognize a marriage performed during a time of war,” she says, skimming through her notes again. “I filled in as much of it as I could ahead of time, but the officiant and witness areas in particular will need your attention—”

“You said you had ‘suggestions’,” Obi-Wan somewhat dryly points out.

Padmé chuckles and shakes her head lightly. “This is the first step in every suggestion. Sorry, Obi-Wan, looks like you’re stuck with him.”

He huffs a sigh, mostly hidden by his hand, but a tightly-restrained wince makes it through regardless.

Her brow furrows lightly. Has something changed? Anakin, at least, had been radiating nervous excitement the entire time she’d spoken with him. Obi-Wan was more reserved, of course, but— “You told me his wellbeing was your _sole_ concern—”

“And so it remains,” Obi-Wan interrupts, allowing his hand to drop just below his chin. There’s a moment of silence where she expects a long hesitation, and then he says simply, “I am not opposed.”

Well, that’s _more_ confusing. “You…think _Anakin_ will be?”

The wince becomes more pronounced. “Unfortunately, I believe he will be all too _thrilled_ with your ‘suggestion’.”

Ah. Padmé doesn’t bother to withhold her humor, barely shuttering it behind her own hand. “ _That_ much we agree on. Now, if we’re going to—”

“Padmé!” Anakin’s voice explodes through the connection seconds before he leans into frame, offering her a broad smile and easy wave.

“Ani,” she greets, unable to do anything but smile in return, if with more grace.

Obi-Wan nods to Anakin, then glances off camera. “Ahsoka.”

“How is everyone?” Padmé attempts, but Anakin has already turned partially away, clearly tracking Obi-Wan who has abruptly stepped out of frame. “ _Ani_.”

He spins back around, vaguely sheepish and obviously preoccupied. “Sorry— sorry, we just — that is, Snips and I found, uh—”

“Found what, precise—”

“Apologies Senator,” Obi-Wan says, stepping back into frame having aged 10 years in the interim. “It seems we have…other pressing matters.” The look he gives Anakin is something like incredulity, but she can’t quite put her finger on it.

Anakin stares back, innocent and defiant, looking pointedly off screen and raising his eyebrows in response. Obi-Wan is clearly unimpressed, but seems to cede to sudden exhaustion, bringing a hand up to scrub at his eyes. Padmé presses her lips together as she watches the silent exchange, forcibly holding her tongue. It should be more annoying, she thinks, but the way Anakin softens to open affection tugs her heart in its familiarity.

It’s something she didn’t expect to ever see again.

It hurts, in a way, that it’s not directed at her. It’s her own fault, from a certain point of view, and entirely Anakin’s in another. Ultimately, she knows it just wasn’t going to work. She knows this even more thoroughly now than she ever did a year ago, but _knowing_ doesn’t just remove all the love and the plans, and the life they’d built together. It does, however, make it easy to recognize the ease and the care the two have for each other. Without ever saying a word, Anakin’s love flares out in the small gestures and the soft look and the concerned press of his lips and even the stubborn tension of his flesh hand fisting.

Obi-Wan drops his hand and turns back to her the same exact moment Anakin’s shoulders square and the softness is brushed aside for the cool confidence she more associates with a battlefield. “We may have to table our personal concerns for the moment.”

She blinks, torn between watching Anakin step partway out of the image again and trying to process Obi-Wan’s sudden change of topic. “Did something happen?”

“Apparently.” He crosses his arms lightly, taking on a thoughtful pose she’s seen far too many times to watch without some measure of suspicion. “We seem to have…acquired…a platoon of mixed troops.”

What?

“I’m sorry, _what_?”

“I believe the army is still on Stand Down orders?”

Padmé rapidly attempts to switch gears, instinctively opening more screens of information on the broad desk before her mostly just to give herself time to process. “I — yes, yes, that should be standing orders until at least the start of the New Year? Obi-Wan, what do you mean you ‘acquired a platoon’?”

She’s not sure if he’s smirking or wincing now. In the back of her mind, a slightly hysterical voice suggests Obi-Wan isn’t either. “I am…looking into the details.”

Padmé stares. There are three holoscreens of text illuminated to the left of where Obi-Wan’s image barely flickers above her commlink on the desk and none of them are helping her make any sense of what just happened. “Can you be more _specific_?” She eventually manages after one last baffled skim of all available content.

It’s definitely a wince. “We have been approached for…” He pauses and for a moment appears to be listening to something, though she can’t be sure and there’s almost no background noise to judge against. Then he gives a slight shake of his head and exhales tightly. “… asylum?”

It takes her a moment to realize the word is connected to the rest of his statement. Asylum? For whom? Because of what? Padmé manages to restrict her bone-deep need to scrub a hand over her face to just a delicate pinch of her nose, but still allows herself a moment to lean into the gesture by way of the desk before her. She was a fool to think this would go so easily with them.

“Okay.” She straightens with the word, catching Obi-Wan’s gaze again. “I need reinforcements.”

This time, _he_ blinks. Small victories. “Pardon?”

“I came prepared to deal with you and Anakin, not you, Anakin, _and a wayward platoon_ , Obi-Wan!” It’s more exasperated than angry, but it bursts out with a broad sweep of her arm before she can completely hem it in. “I need to bring in someone who knows—who has _some_ idea of how to—” Another, incoherent gesture, because that’s what this friendship has reduced her to, apparently.

Obi-Wan seems to take that in stride and, after another moment wherein she can practically _feel_ his need to turn around being fought off, says, “I trust your judgement.”

If _that_ doesn’t just outline his level of panic.

At the very least, it makes it easier for her to collect herself: straightening up, shoulders back, chin raised, the very image of a queen beaten into every crevice of her being. “Keep the line open. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She puts the holo on hold before he even finishes confirmation and presses the key for her secretary. “Put me through to Senator Organa _immediately_.”

“Senator?”

“Tell him—” She skims the three screens of unhelpful information and picks up a pad with a sigh, knowing she’ll need more notes. “Tell him a mutual friend urgently requires his counsel.”

* * *

“Captain.”

“General.”

Obi-Wan presses his lips together and glances around them again, confirming their isolation before he continues. “In your own words, if you could?”

Rex looks vaguely unsure of this request, tossing a brief glance in Anakin’s direction before complying. “Well, it comes down to — we didn’t know where else to go, Sir.”

Ahsoka gives him a sympathetic look before turning back to her master. “You two have _got_ to remember to talk,” she sighs. “ _I_ think it’s weird and at least I know what’s going on.”

Anakin rolls his eyes, but Obi-Wan answers before he can with a short, “Apologies, Captain. It’s been—” He exhales and glances quickly back at the holocall still on hold behind him.

“—a hell of a month,” Anakin finishes with an unrepentant shrug.

“… Yes, Commander Tano—”

“ _Ahsoka_ , Rex—”

“— mentioned something to that affect.” He glances between the two Generals, saying nothing more.

“How many did you bring with you?” Obi-Wan suddenly asks, dragging the conversation back on track, as he usually does.

“There’s just a platoon’s worth docked, Sir.” Rex pauses, and Obi-Wan feels a sudden drag of apprehension before the man adds, “And the rest of a company waiting off base.”

Alarm-concern-protection flares through the bond and Obi-Wan does his level best to send reassurance in spite of the sudden panic that skirts his mental walls. “ _Please_ tell me you haven’t commandeered Republic assets to get here.”

“With respect, I don’t think it’s possible for _assets_ to commandeer assets.” A pause. “Sir.”

 _Rage_.

“What kind of _kraytspit_ is that?!” Anakin snaps the same moment Obi-Wan puts a hand to his arm, desperately circling the boiling anger crashing into his mind with a bid for restraint. He knows better than to ask for peace by then, and judging by how quickly the younger man’s rage turns to concern-alarm-care in response, it seems to be the correct decision.

Anakin’s outburst seems to drain some of the tension out of Rex, at least. “Appreciated, but it doesn’t seem as though most of the Senate agrees.”

Obi-Wan pre-empts his response with a bracing wash of determination-empathy-care before saying, “I’m not sure we’re the best people to help you at the moment.”

Predictably, it barely makes a difference.

“ _Master_ —”

“I didn’t say we didn’t _want_ to,” Obi-Wan quickly interrupts, trying to redirect and keep everyone’s attention on him, lest this entire situation run away from him _again_. “Anakin, you _know_ how many objections I had at the outset. Our hands were tied from the very beginning — _no one_ on the Council wanted to forcibly enlist _anyone_.” He exhales roughly, giving Anakin’s arm a brief squeeze before releasing him again and turning back to Rex with crossed arms. “You couldn’t speak with the Council about this?”

The trooper settles back into an uncomfortable parade rest. “This _is_ us speaking with the Council.”

“…well. That’s—”

They lapse into silence as a group.

“We have a moon?” Anakin hopefully puts in seconds later.

Obi-Wan never feels his age so much as when his former padawan sounds _hopeful_. “Anakin, _no_.”

“It’s not like it counts as deserting, though, right?” Ahsoka thoughtfully chimes in, just as hopeful as her master.

Rex looks affronted. “ _No one_ ’s deserting—”

Concern-alarm-guilt.

“I didn’t say you were!” Ahsoka.

Hurt-hope-concern.

“No one thinks that, Rex.” Anakin.

Obi-Wan looks briefly up to the cavernous ceiling above, channeling all of his considerable willpower to keep from dropping his face into his hands and giving up. Inhale calm.

“That’s why I said it doesn’t count! You’re not on active duty, so you can go wherever you want, right?” Ahsoka blurts out, the words crashing into each other in her haste to explain herself.

“And if the Senate doesn’t want to admit you’re people even _after_ the war, _kark_ ‘em,” Anakin snarls, cutting through the air decisively with his left hand. “You can stay with us. Vod take care of each other right, Snips?”

“Right!”

By the time Obi-Wan drops his gaze once more, it’s only to realize he suddenly has the attention of all three. Exhale troubles. “Anakin—”

“ _Right_?”

Obi-Wan turns to Rex directly. “We don’t _have_ a moon; we _found_ one.”

“No one knows about it!” Anakin cuts in from beside him. “So it’s as good as ours.”

“We don’t even have _plumbing_ , Anakin. Let alone facilities to house and feed an entire company—”

“Battalions.”

It’s the first word Rex has uttered in over a minute and it draws all three Jedi up short in the same moment.

“Did you just—”

“Excuse me,” Obi-Wan interrupts with a curt wave of his hand for the rest of his Lineage. “I must have misheard. Before, you said there was a _company_ off base.”

Rex’s expression tightens, gaze flicking momentarily to Anakin again, which spawns a spiral of encouragement-pride-approval to parade down the bond. The trooper relaxes again, though his hesitation remains. “…If I can speak freely?”

Anakin snorts his opinion of that and Ahsoka dryly points out, “No one’s on duty, Rex.”

“Then…” Rex sighs, looking infinitely uncomfortable without a helmet either under his arm or obscuring his face and — now that Obi-Wan bothers looking — wearing entirely civilian attire. As with all things, however, he rallies and pushes on. “The 501st… we _fight_ for the Republic, but we’re not _in_ it. Not really. The Senate can take all the time it wants to sort the details, but in the meantime we’re still human.

“I’ve got a lot of men who _need_ downtime, but we’re not technically “enlisted” like that. So we don’t qualify for shore leave, or anything more than basic military medical care while we’re not actively at war. Psych evals, advanced surgery, preventative procedures — it all went away when the last funding bill ran dry a month ago. I guess you qualify for that sort of thing if you actually _joined_ the military as a civvie, but that doesn’t _apply_. We were _made_ for it, so there’s ‘other assets’ that come first for fixing.” He’s frowning by the time he turns to face Anakin directly, keeping his General from bursting in with the angry diatribe that’s obviously on the tip of his tongue.

“So we can’t count on them. We can’t count on any of it. But we know we can count on _you_. The whole 501st agrees. The company… that’s just who we could slip out. No major injuries, no major assignments, that sort of thing. If they could, though, they’d all rather be here.” He pauses, then, looking over to Obi-Wan again. “… It’s the same for the 212th, Sir. Commander Cody wanted to be here — to find you — but we figured… well, they probably wouldn’t notice if a Captain skipped off before the whole galaxy goes on break.”

Trying to decipher the flurry of emotion on Anakin’s end of the bond will only bring a headache, so Obi-Wan sifts his own instead, adding only reassurance to the torrent. “I _had_ intended to speak with the Council,” he admits after a moment’s pause, trying desperately not to sigh again. How did they get into these situations? Somehow, they’ve gone from protecting themselves, to _two battalions_ worth of men, and Anakin clearly knows he’s already accepted the appointment, judging by the resolve-love-pride now echoing louder than the rest.

It would be nice to be able to _announce_ his decisions again.

“Well, that’s clearly not happening anymore,” Anakin unhelpfully hums. “So, uh, guess you’re working over the Senate again?”

“Call’s back,” Ahsoka points out before Obi-Wan can get a word in edgewise.

He corrals the most unruly bits of emotion — including a few he’s pretty sure Anakin deposited for him — and shunts the lot into the Force with less grace that he’d really prefer. “Get the _actual_ assets back to the Republic.” He delivers the command to Rex mostly because he knows the man will actually listen, unlike certain others present. “We can’t give them _any_ reason to come after us.”

“On it, Master!” Anakin nevertheless chimes for all of them, gathering up his usual team with a grin borne of mischief and mayhem.

* * *

Obi-Wan turns back around just as a third line is added to the feed. Relief, sweet, pure and intense, washes through him at the sight. “Senator Organa.”

“Master Kenobi!” Bail looks surprised, but pleased with this turn of events. “It’s been too long! How are you, old friend?”

“Absolutely not committing treason, you?”

“…Oh dear.”

Padmé’s lips twist irritably. “You see what I’m dealing with.”

“I see why you made sure I had an encrypted line,” Bail answers on a frown, looking back and forth between the other two. “What, exactly, is this about?”

“You didn’t brief him?”

“We _have_ day jobs,” Padmé lowly returns. “Which we’ll need to get back to eventually.”

Obi-Wan raises a hand placatingly. “And I thank you for making the time, Padmé.” It seems to mollify her enough to turn his attention to Bail. “To summarize; Anakin and I left the Order. We’ve been speaking with Padmé concerning protective measures with regard to _staying_ independent and safe. In the meantime, our battalions found us—”

“You said it was a _platoon_ —”

“Yes, well, I did say I was gathering more information.”

Padmé falls back in her chair, looking to her fellow Senator with a vague wave of her hand in Obi-Wan’s direction. Bail — thank the Force — takes all of this in with only a slight raise of his eyebrows, waiting for the back and forth to finish before speaking. “Given two missing battalions are a more immediate concern…”

“No one is missing,” Obi-Wan interrupts with a small wave of apology for the action. “Only about a company’s worth actually showed up and as far as I am aware they are all in compliance with current stand down orders, unless there has been a travel restriction enacted while I was gone?”

“It…” Bail exhales a light breath and spreads his arms in an open, disarming gesture. “You never fail to provide interesting problems to solve.”

“Tell me about it,” Padmé mutters under her breath.

“Likewise,” Obi-Wan tosses back with some dry spark of gallows humor.

“I think I can see where this is going, however,” Bail continues with a nod to his companions. “Or at least where it’s coming from, given the subcommittee debates recently. Unfortunately, I don’t think the situation is going to be resolved any time soon, either.”

“It doesn’t need to be resolved so much as…neutralized for the time being,” Obi-Wan says. “As with my and Anakin’s situation, simply not being hassled at the moment should suffice. We can handle ourselves.”

“Yes, but we can’t neutralize a possible defection of _up to_ two battalions of troops with a _marriage license_ ,” Padmé points out.

This, at least, garners a sharp look of surprise from the older Senator. “ _Marriage_?”

Padmé gestures towards Obi-Wan, now returned to his attempts not to flush under the attention. “Yes, he always leaves out the part where they essentially Jedi-eloped.”

“There is no such—”

“Congratulations are in order, then!” Bail cheerfully announces. “Really, Obi-Wan, I had no idea you _approved_ , let alone _joined_ them.”

“Excuse me?”

“ _What_?”

Bail lays a hand over his heart and shoots Padmé a slightly hurt expression. “I thought for certain I was in your confidence on this matter. Master Kenobi I can understand — he’s far more discreet —”

“Bail—”

“Although Breha is going to be upset _regardless_ —”

“Senator Organa, I believe you have the wrong impression of—”

“Is _that_ why you turned me down?”

“No!” Obi-Wan’s curt declaration finally manages to wrangle the conversation back under control just as Padmé returns to pinching her nose in a desperate attempt to conserve her makeup in spite of an impending headache. He _patiently_ — he reminds himself, shucking annoyance and embarrassment into the Force — turns to face Bail alone, absolutely not blushing his way through his answer. “I was not — otherwise involved — when you … made that offer… and neither are Padmé and I involved _now_. Nor will we be in _any_ way in the future.”

Bail rocks back on his heels, gaze swinging between them in open bewilderment. It’s not a look Obi-Wan is familiar with seeing on the Senator’s face, but he appreciates it a good deal more than the frowning concern that follows, aimed — as best as he can tell — in Padmé’s direction. She catches the look and drops her hand with a sigh.

“It’s been a year.”

“Ah.”

“… Were we _that_ obvious?”

Obi-Wan and Bail exchange an awkward appraisal before Obi-Wan clears his throat. “I believe it was… largely apparent only to those of us who knew you both well.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Padmé mutters, one hand pressed to her temple openly now, but switches her attention to her fellow Senator. “I suppose we should take a moment for the inevitable follow up, then.”

This, if anything, only seems to confuse the elder statesman. “The inevitable— oh!” Comprehension dawns with an easy smile and a small wave in Obi-Wan’s direction, although his words remain directed at Padmé. “My apologies. I’ve been home frequently as of late and such relationships are not seen as inappropriate among the noble houses of Alderaan. I have no concerns.”

Padmé stares for a moment, then seems to visibly claw her way back to a polite frown of professional disagreement for the sake of their discussion. Obi-Wan suspects it’s something she and Bail will be speaking on a good deal more in the future, but decides to step in before it gets that far now. “It’s… not quite the same, Bail.”

He just nods in casual acceptance. “Yes, obviously. It never could be with the two of you.”

Deciding that was a comment best left alone for the sake of his own sanity, Obi-Wan offers a brief incline of his head and bluntly drags the conversation back to topic. Again. “Moving back to our original concern?”

“In summary: the Jedi have not publicly disavowed you and as such, you’re still technically Generals and have been this whole time,” Padmé immediately jumps in. “And in any case, you remain citizens of the Republic, so you have all the protections of one. Marriage will cement a few others. As a protected class, it’s—” She sighs and shakes her head lightly. “ _Nothing_ is going to confer the same status Jedi hold in the Republic, but it’s a start for keeping the two of you together and allowing Republic authorities to step between you and the Order.”

“You think that will be a problem?” Bail queries, his tone thoughtful and with a hint of remorse.

“It’s likely,” is all Obi-Wan says, a hand returning to his beard in thoughtful consideration. “We wouldn’t have left Republic space otherwise.”

Bail crosses his arms lightly then, shifting his weight to frown off to the side in thought. “Thus your concern with the troops showing up — blasted loyalists, we _warned_ them not to drag this out. We’ll have to account for them one way or another.” He shakes his head and appears to direct his attention back to Obi-Wan directly. “Hutts or Separatists?”

“ _Bail_ —”

“It’s fine, I understand,” Obi-Wan says with a raised hand. “Neither.”

“Mand—?” Padmé catches herself at the last second.

Something twists sharply in Obi-Wan’s chest and he just shakes his head, noting the rush of elation-love-worry that splashes out of the bond in response, but not actively responding. “We’ve spent some time in both, but our current residence is not claimed by either and does not appear on any Republic maps.”

“… ‘Not committing treason’,” Bail concludes on a quiet laugh. “For now, at least, pushing through some shore leave shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“I’ve been told they don’t qualify for that.”

Bail raises his eyebrows. “They do if the Senate says they do.”

“We hardly have the time to—”

“The Chancellor’s office has already laid out a bill for the year’s final session,” Bail quietly points out. “The usual holiday fluff, so it shouldn’t be difficult to have a rider attached for semi-official shore leave.”

“You think it will pass, though?” Padmé pushes, frowning.

He shrugs lightly. “It would only apply to troopers currently on Republic soil and if they’re off-base during the holiday, that’s so many fewer mouths to feed. The usual opposition get to look magnanimous while saving money. I can’t see any real difficulties pushing it through. It’s not a real solution, but it buys us some time.”

Obi-Wan nods his approval, but Padmé speaks up before he can. “I had hoped to propose something _else_ to the Senate — though, perhaps this won’t interfere if it’s just a rider.”

The men share a brief look and then Bail’s expression lights up again. “Ah! Of course, of course — with everything else, I completely forgot.”

Padmé inclines her head in acceptance and rearranges something on her desk. “As I was saying: the both of you remain Generals, which not _only_ allows you to legitimize the marriage without most of the usual formalities, but _also_ means you can be called upon to serve the Republic.”

Obi-Wan furrows his brow, glancing between the two politicians with clear suspicion. “… We welcome the chance to continue our service to the Republic…” he carefully answers even as a distinct sense of foreboding rises from within.

“Senator Organa!” Anakin crashes into him with an arm over his shoulders and an excited thrum of success-determination-adrenaline.

Bail’s expression clears to a broad smile. “General Skywalker. I’ve been told congratulations are in order.”

“Hm?” He blinks, twisting to catch Obi-Wan’s expression when the distinct flare of embarrassed panic sweeps through their bond, and grins. “Oh, Obi-Wan? Yeah, he’s great, thanks!” He gives the older man a one-armed squeeze and takes advantage of the action to tuck a datacard into the inner layer of Obi-Wan’s belt with all the ease of excessive familiarity. “The transport should be headed back to Coruscant in another couple of hours. Ahsoka says you’ve still got enough on there for a few more supply runs.”

Obi-Wan very pointedly does _not_ look at the two Senators watching this exchange, and turns in Anakin’s hold to address him directly. “I take it you found a ship?”

“Yeah, ’s not bad! Some old freighter the station converted for public transport. Said the hyperdrive was fried— it’s not, they’re just idiots— so now it’s ours,” Anakin excitedly rambles.

It’s difficult not to be taken in by the enthusiasm. “It sounds like you still have some work to do, then,” Obi-Wan says with a slide of amusement-encouragement-faith along the bond.

Triumph-love-cheer pushes back. “Uh huh. Leaving all the hard work to me — as _usual_.”

“ _Anakin_ —”

A pair of lips catch his own and before Obi-Wan can even think to respond, Anakin pulls away again, laughing at his startled expression and turning to face their unintended audience. “Nice seeing you — we’ll catch up later?”

“We’ll see,” Padmé answers, looking as though she can’t decide between amusement and exasperation at being interrupted _again_.

Anakin just grins back. “See you later — and, uh, thanks?”

He’s gone before Padmé gets much farther than shaking her head lightly. Bail politely covers a chuckle with his hand and graciously takes over the conversation again for the sake of his still recovering friend. “If I was following correctly, I believe we were about to brief the General on the current status of the treaty negotiations?”

Obi-Wan’s attention snaps from Anakin’s retreat to the conversation at hand. “Treaty negotiations?”

Padmé nods, her expression clouding again before smoothing with the grace of practice. “The Separatists have been pushing for more discussion since the the ceasefire and that miracle you managed to pull with the Armistice.”

“It’s not difficult to reach an agreement with someone who shares your immediate goals,” Obi-Wan murmurs, thoughtful and suspicious all over again. It’s been nearly a month since he spent time actively contemplating the frankly bewildering trip to Serenno that ultimately resulted in the first true moment of peace since the beginning of the war. “I never spoke with anyone in their Parliament, however—”

“Yes, that’s… part of the problem,” Padmé says, and it’s clear from the way she frowns and drops her gaze to what he assumes are more notes that this particular issue has been rattling around her head for a while now. “The Senate could barely be convinced to uphold the Armistice — mostly they’ve been interested in using the time to fortify and re-arm. Or, that was the case until a month or so in when _not_ being at war actually pushed some Senators to alter their stances or be replaced by their local governments.”

She waves off the topic in a clear attempt to curb her own irritation with the self-serving actions of fellow Senators. “We managed to gather a few people willing to speak with Separatist representatives, but _they_ immediately deferred directly to the Count.”

Well that’s… _alarming_ and… new. Very new. When he’d left it had been to quiet rumors and seemingly mild shifts in Senate allegiances that he probably should have paid more attention to, but was frankly too busy with the Order and Anakin and keeping himself sane to care. Obi-Wan allows himself a measured exhale and flicks his gaze between the two Senators as a new idea slowly takes shape. “You worked with the Order once that became clear?”

“The Senate _tried_ to,” Padmé confirms.

“Which is to say, the Jedi Council sent people to speak with him,” Bail adds, more dryly than his companion.

“And after they returned, the Senate tried our _own_ ambassadors.”

“It…wasn’t looking very good,” Bail very clearly understates in that way of his that both gives a clear opinion and says nothing at all. “Of course, _now_ —”

“You want me to go back to Serenno,” Obi-Wan concludes, tone neutral.

“I believe the Count’s last message was, and I quote, ‘Stop messing around and send Kenobi already; my patience is limited.’”

Bail shakes his head lightly. “I swear he sounds just like a holo-villain. I don’t know how you managed.”

Obi-Wan gives a casual shrug. “I’ve been told I have a way with ‘villains’.”

* * *

Anakin looks _decidedly_ unimpressed with the new plan. Obi-Wan expects Padmé will, in fact, be receiving another exhausting call very, _very_ shortly and silently thanks the Force for her well of extreme patience. The bond is a defensive length of angry spikes, a somewhat worrying possessive demand for his thoughts-feelings-memories, and over it all a strangely determined warmth. Honestly, he’s not quite sure what to make of the miasma and thus steadies his own Force signature separately before daring to wade deeper.

“It sounds like a trap.”

“Even if it was — what _for_?”

“I don’t know! Maybe he has a — a _thing_ for you?”

Obi-Wan’s expression is bland and full of doubt. “There are far more pressing reasons to be concerned than my own safety.”

“Yeah, because you’re _obviously_ not going without _me_ ,” the younger man snaps with a sharp toss of whatever tool was in his hand before it clanged off a bulkhead and into a large bag in the corner of the engine room.

“ _Obviously_ ,” Obi-Wan immediately agrees and catches Anakin’s hand in the surprised pause that follows, strengthening the flow of peace-acceptance-hope between them as he takes an awkward seat on a large pipe beside his former padawan. “There is no one else I would rather have at my back. You know that.”

The spikes vanish, leaving prickly worry-love-hesitation in their wake. Anakin doesn’t continue the fight, however, instead leaning back to rest his head against another of the plethora of pipes along the edge of the engine room walls as he plunges deep into the thrumming strength of their bond. A soft bit of pride worms its way into the mix of emotions that seem to somehow stem the unruly tide of Anakin’s flaring Force signature.

“ _How_ does this help us?”

“You mean other than possibly ending a war?”

Anakin cracks an eye open enough to glare. “You know what I mean.”

Obi-Wan smirks and raises Anakin’s captured hand to his lips, thoroughly enjoying the immediate flush and flutter of emotions that follows. The spiral of negative emotions immediately stumbles into pleased embarrassment and, considering that enough of a victory for one simple action, Obi-Wan gently lowers the hand into both of his own again. “If we get the Senate on our side, we can keep the Order at an arm’s length at least long enough to prove… to prove this isn’t what they fear it might be.”

“You’d think that was _obvious_ ,” Anakin mutters, but doesn’t really complain. His whole form slowly relaxes as Obi-Wan presses careful fingers into the palm of his hand. It’s not even a new thing between them — Anakin has _always_ been a knot of tension even in the best of times — but the patient massage remains a source of steadying calm even now.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Obi-Wan allows as he works. “At the very least, a little protection goes a long way for the Troopers, and if we can prevent sending our friends _back_ to the front lines…”

“Yeah. I get it. I get it.” Anakin closes his eyes again, falling into companionable silence as Obi-Wan moves from his palm to his wrist, allowing the firm pressure to lull him into a well-earned moment of stillness. He breaks it moments later with a soft chuckle. “I wish I could be there when the Council gets _that_ Senatorial update. Can you imagine their _faces_?”

Obi-Wan entertains the notion with a good-natured brush of humor over their bond, and the thought-feeling of Windu’s pinched expression from years prior. He can’t quite recall what spawned it, but he’s fairly certain it too involved something Anakin did. Either way, it pulls another soft laugh from his companion before he finally opens his eyes again and shifts himself more upright, never quite pulling out of his hold.

“So we do this for the Republic, and they—”

“‘Bless our union’,” Obi-Wan dryly supplies.

“Kriff, that’s straight out of a holo-drama.” Anakin wrinkles his nose in distaste, but can’t quite remove the amusement from his Force signature.

“Bail has a flair for the dramatic. One that will serve us well, I believe.”

“That’s all it takes to keep the Council off our backs? What about the troops? Cody and the rest that can’t make it yet?”

Yet. Already planning for the rest, of course. Obi-Wan isn’t even surprised. He exhales softly and pushes further up Anakin’s forearm, frowning at a particularly sharp twitch and carefully working around the knot for a moment before continuing.

“If we’re not Jedi, they can’t _pay us_ like Jedi,” he steadily replies. “Which makes us, functionally, citizens of the Republic, but as we are not currently based in Republic space — or that of any known entity—”

“We’re effectively our own entity,” Anakin summarizes.

“I’m _impressed_ , Anakin.” The quirk of his lips gives him away.

Anakin levels him with a flat stare. “Just because I don’t _like_ listening to the details doesn’t mean I can’t _follow_ them.”

Obi-Wan applies more pressure, sharply, and earns himself a sharp inhale and a bitten back curse for his troubles. He maintains his hold, however, and swiftly resumes his steady progress up Anakin’s arm. “Well, you have the general idea of it and we should know if it’s going to work fairly quickly. Bail seems to think the timing will actually work in our favor, since it’s ultimately positive news and most Senators are already looking to head home for the holiday.”

“…And _you’re_ okay with everything?” Anakin prods the bond with surprisingly gentle affection-concern-love and Obi-Wan once again reminds himself of precisely how insightful his former padawan can be when he bothers to try.

So he sighs and shifts closer for a better angle to work on Anakin’s elbow. “I would _prefer_ fewer people having a rather personal understanding of my relationships,” he openly answers, tossing Anakin a pointed look as he pushes the truth of his words into the bond, “but I can’t be upset if that knowledge keeps us together.”

Understanding-amusement-love. “So ‘no, but I’ll deal with it’,” Anakin translates.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have time to get _used_ to it, at any rate.”

“Ugh, I just wish we didn’t have to get used to it on _Serenno_.” Anakin throws himself back against the wall again, though not hard enough to pull his arm from Obi-Wan’s hold. “Why is it always _Dooku_ — didn’t he make a parliament for this or something?”

“Apparently, I’m _popular_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### From the Authors:
> 
> Because sending a pair of maybe-fallen Jedi to deal with a definitely-fallen Jedi is totes going to look good, right? (≧ω≦)ゞ
> 
> I’m a little shocked I managed to get through an entire chapter without changing location OR timeline! (Don’t get used to it <_< ) Anyway! We’re finally through the immediate “idiots-jump-ship-together” time period and are rocketing back to the present next time around. See you then!
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * Battle of Sundari  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn’t
>   * Separatist Movements abruptly change
>   * Ahsoka’s Trial / Leaving The Order  
>  Tholme tells Obi-Wan to keep his lineage in check because shit’s getting real
>   * _Obi-Wan Negotiates_ General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatist  
>  <Shatterpoint> (obviously this never happened in Canon, but it basically replaces all of Anakin’s bad decisions post Ahsoka so we’ll call it a shatterpoint)
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin take a vacation to Yavin 4
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at Phindar Spacestation and are found by Ahsoka
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at an unnamed spacestation on the Perlemian Trade Route _and buy a bus_
> 

> 
> **MULTIPLE YEARS PASS (ﾉ´ｰ´)ﾉ**
> 
> **Current Year**
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
> 



	7. In Which Obi-Wan Thanks You For Coming to His TED Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waifu Wine Pairing: “The Draw” by Bastille
> 
> The authors remind everyone there is - in fact - a plot, and Anakin remembers their date with Padmé before they miss it! Wonders never cease!

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Present Day): Jedi Temple High Council Chambers

  
They step into the Council Chambers and, for a moment, it’s like nothing’s changed at all. The tall windows keep the old room bright and airy, the guards still close the doors silently after them, and most of the customized chairs actually hold a Councilor. It doesn’t seem as though they ever got around to replacing the table, however.

A pulse of amusement crosses their bond along with the sensation of laughter, and Anakin instinctively looks to his right to check Obi-Wan’s expression. It’s more restrained than he’s gotten used to, but there’s an unmistakable humor in his eyes and the slight upturn of his lips. For now, it’s enough. So Anakin smirks back, and returns to scanning the room as if he doesn’t know every nook and cranny already. Obi-Wan is confident, and it’s contagious to a degree, but they’ve spent several years now evading direct contact with these people for a reason. Really, his master was more adamant about it than he was, so a little extra attention to detail is as much for Obi-Wan as himself.

“I don’t suppose you have a spare set of chairs?”

Surprise, confusion, and vague alarm is filtered into the Force and dissipates almost as quickly. Anakin bites his cheek and settles his weight to one side, pointedly not looking at Obi-Wan just to keep himself in check.

“… I don’t see why we should,” Master Rancisis says into the silence.

Obi-Wan loosely crosses his arms and strokes his beard thoughtfully, allowing only a hint of the sparkling amusement now suffusing their bond to slip into his expression. “It just seems polite, really.”

“Kenobi, you know very well the only seats in this room are for members of this Council.” Mace sounds tired before they’ve even really begun the conversation, which Anakin decides to count as the first of likely many victories.

“Oh, yes; precisely why it seemed rude to take one from the circle.”

Irritation-anger-caution-fear wisps through the Force like a passing wind. Anakin turns slightly towards the strange drift of emotion, aware of the continued conversation only because Obi-Wan pings him curiously through the bond. Images and emotion flit between them; a dark, old hallway, the jut of stone beneath foliage and the tickle of dust. Mystery. There’s a low murmur that’s probably spoken words and — there.

Caution drifts into the Force like a fog over the cool, placid calm that generally radiates from Jedi Masters. That part is expected. It’s not as though Jedi don’t _feel_ , they just — there it is again. Fear. A faint, resonate pulse that seems to drift up beneath the lake of serenity until it meshes into a sluggish, slow-moving current. That is _not_ expected.

But it _is_ familiar.

So he falls into the Force with the ease of breathing and waits. He’s tried to explain it to Obi-Wan before, when he was young and didn’t understand that other Jedi didn’t experience the same constant, humming connection as he has his whole life. His master had sat with him, letting a child explain the Force to a man who had lived with it his whole life, patiently asked for clarification, and drew him carefully into a joint meditation. It was only years later, wandering deep into partially-collapsed ruins on instinct and a faintly heard whisper, that he thought to explain the feel-sound-sight of the Living Force that pushed him deeper like a swimmer with a wave at his back.

He remembers the gentle awe, the soft affection, the silent ceding of direction. Mostly, he remembers the abiding _trust_ that sang through their bond as he followed the Force whispers through empty hallways and on into darkness. It’s not so different from now, except where the ruins on Yavin are muted — rage dimmed by age, fear muted by new life, death long since given over to the Force — _here_ there’s a distinct call and response that is, for lack of a better word, _strange_.

It’s … _dark_.

Is _that_ what he felt at the entrance? A resonating bass buried so deep beneath the twinkling treble of young Force-sensitives and the firmer contralto of their instructors that he hadn’t even noticed it was there until specifically looking for it? Now, though — he moves a couple, cautious steps and stops, crouching with a hand to the floor and a frown of concentration. A faint twinkle of concern-alarm floats across his senses, perhaps from the bond, perhaps suffusing the Force around them. This deeply immersed, it’s honestly hard to tell.

Another thump that feels something like fear-paranoia. It seeps upward and reaches out, struggling and snarling against the light that pushes down — rage-fear-haTE-PAIN—

< Anakin. >

He blinks, dropping the pried up tile from his hands and shunting the miasma out of his Force signature in one move. Obi-Wan’s familiar signature welcomes and grounds him like a strong tangle of roots latched to his own, holding him firmly to the present. Holding rather _tightly_ actually…

Oh.

“… As you can see, Councilors,” Obi-Wan is saying in the tones of a man who both can’t believe he’s been forced into this and yet remains somehow unsurprised, “everything is well in hand.”

“I, uh, found something?” Anakin offers from the floor, attempting a disarming smile as he hastily presses the tile back into place, giving it a couple extra pats as though that will somehow reattach it.

“See that, we can, young Skywalker,” Yoda says from his chair, unruffled and unmoving, in spite of the handful of councilors now out of their own. “What that is, perhaps you could share?”

Anakin hardly needs the roll of encouragement from the Force bond, but returns eager affection regardless. “I was still trying to figure that out when Obi-Wan got my attention,” he explains while standing, and turns his attention back to the man in question. “It really is similar, Master. If I didn’t know any better I’d say we were in some of those older ruins back home.”

Obi-Wan looks thoughtful, but it’s Master Kolar who speaks first. “What manner of Dark Side—?”

“The older ones?” Plo interrupts. Fear-anger sizzles into the Force and that same faint whisper-tone resonates up in reply. Anakin raises his eyebrows pointedly in Obi-Wan’s direction while the Kel Dor continues. “What do you mean?”

“He means, specifically, the ruins that have other ruins built over top of them,” Obi-Wan summarizes for the room at large. “It’s one of the major discoveries we made during exploration. The oldest Sith ruins have, to the one, been overlapped with Jedi architecture.”  
  
“You believe there are Sith remnants here?” Plo directs his question to Anakin, openly curious in that easy way of his.

Anakin’s not sure he can remember a time outside of battle any of the masters present — his own, obviously excluded — has _ever_ looked to him for any measure of … expertise? He’s not sure that’s what it is, even, but it’s nice to contemplate, so he rolls with it. “Well, it got worse when I pulled up the tile, which is really similar to the stuff on Yavin 4, since the whole system works like a kind of giant machine. If a part fails, at least part of the system is going to break down. It’s also _not_ the same, though, because whatever’s going on here is … under pressure? It doesn’t just… gush out like that on Yavin.”

“Is it the same as what you felt earlier?” Obi-Wan quickly asks, a flicker of concern-pride-curiousity skipping through the bond.

“ _Something’s_ there.” It’s not what he thought he was going to say, but the Force rings with truth, so Anakin doesn’t bother to clarify further.

A deeper concern-caution-suspicion sweeps through the room before the background noise even gets to react. Now tuned into the pattern, it’s obvious when the light fog sinks into thick haze. The Jedi Masters each seem to retreat into themselves on instinct, shuttering the cool placidity their presence typically brings and dimming the feel of the Force surrounding them. Anakin gives his companion another, pointed look and a curl of inquiry over their bond. Surely he’d felt that? Surely he could see the reaction? Couldn’t they, too?

“Hmm…” Yoda taps his staff lightly on the floor and leans forward. “If something there is, investigate we should.”

“With respect, Grand Master, is that really the best course of action at the moment?” Shaak Ti murmurs, thoughtful gaze sliding from a clear inspection of their visitors to meet his instead.

“I agree with Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan politely interrupts, his tone placating and introspective. “If I recall correctly, there are ways into the lower levels, unless even more has changed since our departure? And if that is the case, it should be easy to prove or disprove Anakin’s findings. If true, is this not the sort of thing that should be immediately investigated?”

An uneasy tension slides through the room and dissipates soon after, the resonating fear drifting up shortly after.

The way Anakin figures, he may as well be the one to break up that tension.

“Anyway, it’s probably better than trying to find more chairs.”

* * *

“… What _is_ it?” Fisto murmurs in vague fascination while peering over Anakin’s shoulder.

“Some _Sith_ machination, no doubt,” Kolar huffs from somewhere to the left.

“Seems as much, yes,” Obi-Wan comments with a dry sweep of the rune-covered wall before them.

Anakin pays little mind to the discussion — if it can be called that — happening around him. It’s been well into an hour since they wandered out from an ancient, unused elevator and since then, the whisper-pull of the Force has only increased. The muted tones of sweeping stone arches and occasional greenery had been exchanged for stark, towering halls the moment they set foot in the darkness below, immediately putting the Councilors that accompanied them on edge. Still, they _are_ Masters, so they had walked confidently along red stone floors, gazes flitting about to take in the width and breadth of this uncomfortably strange section of a place they would have previously claimed to know in their very bones.

“… our experience, the more difficult it is to see the ceiling, the older the architecture,” Obi-Wan drones on somewhere behind him. Anakin turns over the small, pyramid-shaped contraption, using touch to focus his probing with the Force. He can tell it’s a little rougher than Obi-Wan would really _like_ , given the caution-exclamation-concern hovering over the bond, but he’s so sure he’s seen something like this before and they have to get _something_ out of this trip beyond revealing a single, strange passage Yoda apparently already knew about anyway.

“If it is connected to the Dark Side, should we not sense it?” The hum of Plo’s antiox mask echoes oddly in their cavernous surroundings.

“Well, it wouldn’t rush out like it did in the Council Chambers if something wasn’t keeping it under pressure,” Anakin says, only half aware of the words as he drags his fingers over the crystal hexagon at the core of the otherwise stone pyramid in his hands.

“Built atop vergences, the Jedi of the past often did,” Yoda muses from the base of the wall, one hand laid against the stone several feet below the now empty space from which Anakin had plucked the strange device. “Sacred was this mountain, to the people of Coruscant. Strong in the Force, it always has been. Long before the Jedi came.”

“Fascinating as that is, it doesn’t explain the giant wall of strange runes—”

“It’s Sith,” Obi-Wan interrupts before Master Kolar can gain enough steam to insist the lot of them out of ancient hallways and the two of them into imprisonment. Again.

“So you mentioned.”

A twinkle of exasperated amusement slips down the bond just as Anakin’s irritation presses more deeply into the ancient device than any other push of the Force has thus far.

“Apologies for my lack of clarity, Councilor,” Obi-Wan directs to the suspicious Zabrak alone with all the patient serenity of a fellow Master, “I do not mean this place was merely created by the Sith, but that those ‘runes’ are in fact the written language of the Sith.”

“You can _read_ this?” It’s the first time Mace has said a word since they began their strange spelunking diversion.

Anakin very nearly jumps from the sudden reminder of the man’s presence, startling his more careful probes of irritation-annoyance-frustration into alarm-fear. A burst of cold, white light sparks within the crystal amidst a scatter of purple sparks that makes him jerk his hand away with a bitten back curse. The Nautolan master at his shoulder steps back just far enough not be struck while steadying him.

“ _Ow_.”

“Are you injured?”

Obi-Wan is half a step closer with a wash of concern-curiosity-love, but Agen moves quicker, slipping between the two with battle-trained purpose. “What manner of Dark Side device have you activated, Skywalker?”

“I’m sure Anakin will be happy to explain his findings given the _chance_.” Obi-Wan’s tone has notably cooled, but restraint resonates down the bond as he keeps himself from moving closer again.

Anakin shakes his hand out, keeping the once-again-docile pyramid in his other hand. “I’m fine, thanks,” he grunts, answering Kit’s question, but directing it to the demanding Zabrak master nearly in his space.

“You refuse—”

“It’s a _light_ ,” Anakin dryly announces, startling everyone by immediately rapping the tip against the stone wall a few times until the cold, flickering light steadies. “See?”

Yoda makes a contemplative hum and gestures to the device until Anakin releases it to his gentle tug of the Force. The device floats down to Yoda’s height and hovers just above. “Hm… a light he says.” He studies it a moment before raising his staff and swiftly rapping it in a similar manner to Anakin — and the device immediately winks out, plummeting toward the floor. He catches it far more nimbly than a creature his age should wholly be capable of and taps it against the wall again. The light flickers back on and immediately returns to floating just above his head. “A light… it is.”

Anakin crosses his arms and flashes a triumphant grin.

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Hours Later): Jedi Temple Basement, Doors of a Sith Shrine

It takes some time, but as they work their way through the long halls with a Sith lightbulb hovering overhead, the motley fraction of Councilors accompanying them turn their caution from the two former Jedi to their creepy surroundings instead. Anakin walks ahead, curious, brash, and confident he can handle anything they might encounter. Obi-Wan lets him go. They’ve been through this before in the countless ruins dotting Yavin and experience tells him not to try overriding whatever it is the Force is whispering to its Chosen One from deep in the bowels of a Sith Shrine.

If nothing else, the physical distance seems to relax many of the masters into speaking with him again, which he has to admit is more pleasant than he’d anticipated. So he explains one of the designs Mace glances at as they walk by — a break in the text to illustrate a crescendo in the Dark Side of the Force just before it sweeps over the weak and unprepared — and is granted more inquiries in return.

“You’ve seen this before?”

“We’ve seen similar,” Obi-Wan says with a thoughtful nod. “Without much else to go on, all I can say is it appears to be a central tenet of old Sith beliefs. It’s a little different from the imagery on Yavin, however.”

“Perhaps crafted by a separate group?” Shaak Ti murmurs as she draws even with them again. Her gaze remains mostly ahead, but her input relevant to the discussion among the Councilors.

“It’s likely. Most of the oldest structures on Yavin were done by a particular sect—”

“Master~” The sudden call is accented by a confounded demand for attention via the Force bond, making him look over before he even thinks about it. “Take a look at this!”

If he were less used to keeping track of so many people during their frequent trips into ancient, usually collapsed buildings, Obi-Wan would have missed the look that passes between Mace and Shaak Ti as he steps quickly away. It’s just a slight raise of eyebrows, the vaguest impression of lingering concern passed into the Force, and then nothing at all. He notes it, but tucks it away for later, choosing instead to focus on the tall carving anchoring the abrupt end of the passage they’ve walked for half an hour by now.

“A door?” he observes, glancing up as he comes to a stop at Anakin’s side.

Behind them, the Councilors linger at the edge of hearing, speaking in low tones among themselves.

“That’s what I’m thinking, yeah.” A brush of affection-contemplation-curiousity rolls into the bond as Anakin pushes the light a little higher. “There’s something extra over the top, though?”

Obi-Wan tilts his head back further, squinting a bit for the worn lines to come into focus. It takes a moment of silent contemplation and the mnemonic shift of his fingers helping to draw the structure of the faded runes in his mind before realization hits. “Ah. Yes, I see what you mean. It’s like the warning in Temple 9… the phrasing seems off, though…”

“Guess I can use the standard method—”

“No.”

“But I—”

“Anakin, _no_.”

“… Just a little?”

Obi-Wan sighs and drops his gaze to catch Anakin’s eager, mischievous expression and shake his head fondly. “We’re trying to _mend_ ties, remember?”

“Right, so we told them we’re visiting, we spend some time fixing their Dark Side problem—” Anakin wiggles his fingers at the door in a tell-tale indication of his ‘usual method’, “—and they stop not-hating us.”

It’s so stupidly straightforward, Obi-Wan is a little surprised he hadn’t discerned the true source of Anakin’s demanding push hours ago. Soft amusement sifts back through the bond and he doesn’t even bother to stop it. “You know very well the _way_ we help matters. Besides, there are more … elegant… solutions than zapping everything open.”

Anakin deflates slightly. “I knew you’d say that.”

“Then why ask for me?”

The sensation of an affectionate swat zips through the bond. “You know you’re better at the details than I am. Which part is the code?”

Ah. A soft chuckle slips out before he can think to restrain it in front of their company. Obi-Wan shakes his head lightly and gestures upward, tugging the light off to the left so that it hovers just shy of a third of the way up the outline of the doors. “There.”

Anakin brightens immediately, moving as if to walk past, but catching Obi-Wan’s belt along the way and tugging him into an easy, affectionate kiss. Just long enough to make sure their audience sees it, but short enough to keep embarrassment at bay. Love-warmth-pride bounces back and forth along the bond and Obi-Wan finds himself more than willing to spare an extra minute lingering in the fierce reassurance of their connection.

Then, Anakin turns away and makes for the light and the code it illuminates.

Obi-Wan turns back around to find a surprising spectrum of emotion focused on them. Everything from overt disapproval to exasperated acceptance finds a place among the Councilors watching them. Years ago, he would have been concerned. Guilty, even, beneath the knowing gaze of so many respected masters. Now though… now the dawning realization sweeping subtly through the group stirs only soft amusement and that same, dear fondness he’s always had for the man who knew _exactly_ what he was doing when he kissed him.

It was never _just_ Anakin being rash. It was never about Falling. And it was never about Obi-Wan chasing his padawan into the darkness to drag him back out. It doesn’t matter how long they’ve known Obi-Wan. It doesn’t matter that he’d been one of _them_ once: a respected Councilor, knowledgable master, and reliable friend. None of it changes the fact that here and now, the two of them separated from the Order and have _thrived._ Unconventionally, and without nearly as much care for their old life as may have been hoped, they have thrived and they aren’t backing down from any of it.

The shock of it borders on fear.

Obi-Wan pushes belief-serenity-support down the bond and rejoins the group to try to provide a genial explanation of Anakin’s prodding.

* * *

“—and that should activate the ancient mechanism for opening these doors. Quite standard for older Sith buildings, really.”

Plo makes a thoughtful noise as he glances over to where Anakin is giving a particular rune the stink-eye. Mace is still maintaining his usual impassive yet somehow slightly irritated expression, and Yoda is, as always, unreadable.

The other Councilors seem far less interested in Obi-Wan’s lecture on the finer points of ancient Sith architecture. Shaak Ti, for one, gives Obi-Wan another long measuring look.

“You seem to know a great deal about the Sith,” Master Kolar finally says.

“It was a necessity on Yavin,” explains Obi-Wan, smiling slightly. “It seemed better to understand the Sith sites and perhaps even neutralize them, in order to ensure a safe environment for all of us.”

“How certain are you that you understand your own attachments?” Shaak Ti asks, “Does Skywalker?”

Obi-Wan wasn’t expecting such a blunt topic change—honestly, he was hoping to avoid this discussion in favor of talking about the Sith ruin under the Temple—but he takes a moment to remember his Jedi training and gently sets his irritation free into the Force, so softly Anakin barely even reacts.

“You understand how it looked to us.” Fisto doesn’t carry as much judgment in his tone, but he is obviously uncomfortable. “You, who had once trained young Skywalker, eloped with him the moment the war was over.”

It’s tempting to get caught up in the details of exactly how over the war was at the time, or the fact that the Council did catalyze that series of events, and more importantly that they were very much _not_ eloping at the time. Obi-Wan is just starting to form a suitable rebuttal when—

“Hey!” Anakin has apparently paused from staring the runes into submission in order to interrupt a conversation that Obi-Wan suddenly realizes was not particularly quiet. “It wasn’t _even_ eloping. Master and I got together a _week_ after we left, so you can’t give us banthashit for that when I _wasn’t even getting anything out of it_!” He takes a breath, but no one seems inclined to respond, so he finishes riding that wave of indignance. “Do you _know_ how hard I had to work for this?”

There’s a long moment in which no one moves or speaks in the dim hallway.

Obi-Wan can’t quite stop the urge anymore and puts a hand up to his face. After another pause, Anakin turns victoriously back to the door.

The silence is broken by Master Plo chuckling behind his mask.

“Well,” says Mace, frowning deeply. “At least we know Skywalker is in his right mind.”

* * *

Their impromptu expedition ends shortly after the doors open.

Anakin figures he really should have seen it coming.

Just one tile in the Council Chambers had been enough to release the otherwise sluggish echoes with the force of hot gas escaping a pressure release valve. _That_ had been manageable. _This_ should have been, too, but they were distracted and playing nice and the next thing Anakin knows there’s a blast of PAIN-FEAR-RAGE-TERROR screaming through the smallest crack in the heavy stone doors. It’s _heavy_ ; spraying out like a dam about to burst, but settling like a thick, toxic miasma over the Force, sinking into the air, and digging viciously into solid mental shields. Slicing, prying, burning its way deeper, stronger, SCREAMING—

< No. >

Obi-Wan moves with him before the thought has even finished forming. He doesn’t need his master’s strength for this — no matter the concentration and the rage and the desperate flail of restrained power galloping towards freedom — the Force answers his call. _All_ parts of the Force. It’s taken years of hard-won experience to hold his ground when instinct welcomes the flow of the Force instead of guiding it, but ultimately he _knows_ he’s strong enough to handle the onslaught.

No, Obi-Wan steps forward with the same, synchronous motion to help close the door again because deep in their bond, surrounded and protected by their matching shields, their intentions are the same. To the Force, Anakin is as much a vergence as the shrieking pressure they shove back into the darkness. To Obi-Wan, Anakin is Anakin, and that’s what _Anakin_ needs.

The door creaks shut with barely a sound for the effort required and they lapse into deafening silence.

Anakin feels… _stretched_. The Force whispers around him, eager, excited, and willing. It surges through him still, sizzling warm and flaring out in eerie mimicry of the dark desperation of only moments before. He knows without looking how he must seem to the masters behind him — a fiery burst of light in the Force — and thinks of the memory Obi-Wan shared with him all those years ago by a much smaller bonfire on a far off moon they now call home.

Obi-Wan welcomes him back with a gentle, but firm hand on his shoulder and swell of warmth-love-trust between them. After a moment, Anakin returns the gesture with an open smile.

“It seems as thought we’ve gotten a little ahead of ourselves,” Obi-Wan says as he steps away to rejoin the larger collective.

“Precisely my concern,” Shaak Ti replies, her voice surprisingly steady in spite of the way she stares past him.

“Because it wasn’t at all important to see that there’s actually something worth looking into,” Anakin huffs, turning back a step behind Obi-Wan, still trying to shuck the extra buzz of eager energy back into the Force at large.

“ _Anakin_.”

“Perhaps we should have spent more time discussing this.” Master Fisto turns with his suggestion, the rest of the Council unconsciously echoing the semi-circle of discussion as he does.

“Information gathering, at this point, was paramount,” Obi-Wan says, trying to redirect their conversation back to more productive places. “If we had never looked into it, you wouldn’t even have confirmation that there was anything to be concerned over.”

“And we wouldn’t have been exposed to who knows what kind of Sith—”

“Uh, hate to break it to you, but the fact that I sensed _anything at all_ means you’ve _been_ exposed for a while already,” Anakin irritably interrupts, raking a hand roughly back through his hair in the process.

“You have no confirmation of that,” Shaak Ti calmly counters.

“You’re the only one who ever felt anything in the first place,” Kolar adds.

Obi-Wan sighs and glances over to catch Anakin’s eye. “Suddenly,” he drawls, half-exasperated, half-amused, “I have a deeper appreciation for Master Sifo-Dyas.”

Frustration fizzles into a short chuckle. “No kidding.”

Mace frowns in their direction, brow furrowed as if he’s not sure what he’s seeing. “You may not be part of the Order any longer, but you should be respectful of our dead.”

“Well, he’d have to be dead for that—” The words are barely out of Anakin’s mouth before the attention of all six Councilors snaps to him and him alone.

For one, chaotic moment, everyone starts to speak over each other, cut short by a sharp motion from Mace who delivers a curt, “Explain.”

“Well,” Obi-Wan says, entirely unwilling to withhold all of the humor in his voice, “he’s definitely going to be sad to have missed your reactions.”

“Speak on this, we shall,” Yoda says with a tap of his cane. “But on the way out, perhaps.”

Anakin shares a look and a shrug with his former master. “Padmé’s probably expecting us for dinner pretty soon.”

“Much to speak on, we have,” Yoda continues with a contemplative glance over the two of them. “Continue this tomorrow, we should.”

It’s… _almost_ a request.

Obi-Wan glances back over his shoulder, but Anakin marches forward to properly join the circle of Jedi. “If that means we keep looking into whatever this place is, I’m in.” Alarm-concern just starts to wash through the bond before he counters with confident reassurance and looks back to catch Obi-Wan’s gaze as he joins them again. “What do you think, Master?”

“We’ll need to make some arrangements,” Obi-Wan answers with a sigh, but a nod of confirmation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### From the Authors:
> 
> I just want to give a great big round of applause to AuroraExecution for once again coming in clutch with the perfect dialogue and editing like a beast despite working her ass off all week. She finally got a little down time and spent much of it in Star Wars. <3 She’s the best and deserves all the props.
> 
> So aside from that, I just want to give a heads up that the sequence of chapters with scenes that happen chronologically is taking a vacation for probably the next two updates. (;¬_¬) But I assume — especially after this chapter — we need some clarification on how we got where we are, and the next section of the story is largely dedicated to that. So stay tuned for “how the fuck is he alive?” “Anakin, that’s not a harem” and “wait, who left?” … among other great moments.
> 
> Cookies for anyone who can guess how many tabs I had to keep open to make sure I accounted for everyone and correctly spelled their names! (ԾεԾ)
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * Battle of Sundari  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn’t
>   * Separatist Movements abruptly change
>   * Ahsoka’s Trial / Leaving The Order  
>  Tholme tells Obi-Wan to keep his lineage in check because shit’s getting real
>   * Obi-Wan Negotiates General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatist  
>  <Shatterpoint> (obviously this never happened in Canon, but it basically replaces all of Anakin’s bad decisions post Ahsoka so we’ll call it a shatterpoint)
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin take a vacation to Yavin 4
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at Phindar Spacestation and are found by Ahsoka
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at an unnamed spacestation on the Perlemian Trade Route and buy a bus
> 

> 
> **14 BBY _Current Year_**
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * _Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep under the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in_
> 



	8. In which 21 Guns Plays In the Background

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waifu Wine Pairing: ... “21 Guns” by Green Day ... ( <_< )
> 
> The Clone Wars, again, from the other side, and sped up for your convenience. (You know that part of a show where we suddenly focus on the “villains” for an episode?)
> 
> Also, for visual aid: [this is the version](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/starwars/images/7/7f/Mastersdookuandsifo.jpg/) of Sifo we’re working with, rather than the rage-zombie from Clone Wars. ( You’re welcome ;P )

### 30 BBY: Castle Serenno

  
Sometimes, Sifo-Dyas wonders what he’s doing.

Serenno should be familiar. Like Coruscant, it’s a bustling planet of large cities and many thousand years’ mismatch of buildings. Unlike Coruscant, flora enfolds every corner of civilization here, giving way only to cliffs and the sea beyond. In both places, the Force floods into the abundance of life and crashes upwards until it spills over into soil, and stone, and plant and people.

But mostly, Serenno should be familiar, because _Dooku_ should be.

And sometimes, he is.

Sometimes — after Sifo has managed to convince his old friend into quiet discussion and the repetition of a ritual from their padawan years — he can look at the man in fine black robes and see the Jedi Master instead. Other times — when Dooku sweeps through the halls with all the tension of a coiled snake and the scent of ozone drifting after the flair of his cape — the man he sees is the memory of his friend, but the form of a Sith. Whatever Dooku’s decisions, however, _Sifo-Dyas_ remains a Jedi Master, and knows better than to truly separate one image from the other.

It doesn’t make it easier.

Just like knowing what’s going to happen doesn’t make it any easier to accept or necessarily possible to circumvent. When he was younger, he used to wonder why the Force slammed sight-sound-emotion so frantically into his mind-body-signature that it left a _Jedi_ unable to wrench his mind from the cacophony, drenched in cold sweat and trembling until someone dragged him out of the dark. Now, so many years and so many futures later, he knows better than to think there is a reason.

The visions will come. The future will come. He will remain a conduit for both, at times preparing for the inevitable, and at times causing it. He supposes he should have guessed Dooku would find a way to wedge himself into the cracks between preparation and manifest destiny. The man has never been anything short of remarkable since their youth, and his predilection for the dramatic seems to have only grown since he left the Order.

He’d appreciate the latter more if it hadn’t come at the expense of causing the very calamity he’d tried so hard to prepare the Republic to face.

But, for once, the visions lessen. And he’s never been particularly good at ignoring Dooku and it’s only gotten worse since he woke up in this place — sure of his own death but alive, relieved by the hand in his but terrified of the truth in his friend’s actions. For the first time in years, the present scares him more than the future, and he’s tempted to prefer it that way just because the man he’d thought lost is the one who now pulls him from the darkness.

Is it not right to offer the same in return?

Dooku doesn’t appreciate the effort, of course, and sometimes their circular arguments, exhaustive debates, forced rituals, and oddly dissonant meditations make him wonder if he’s making any progress at all, or being pulled down into the depths. Sometimes, he _wants_ to be dragged under. It’s tempting. It’s _so_ tempting to give up and give in and let his old friend do the crazy, stupidly complex thing he has planned just to watch the inevitable victory and resultant fallout. But in this one thing, he just _can’t_.

It’s not about strength — of mind or in the Force. He’s never been the powerful one between the two of them and never will be, and has never minded this. It’s simply because if he doesn’t _try_ no one else _will_. And somewhere between the churn of stubborn defiance and the press of catastrophic certainty, he knows he’s the only one who _can_.

So he follows the Count on his rounds through the castle and reminds him of the droids present where there were servants last year, speaks of the messages his sister has left, and reminds him of all the things he’s ever hated about politicians. It’s small and slow-moving, but he’s persistent and has always known which buttons to push, and so it’s not long before the droids are replaced by people to interact with and ask after him; not long before Jenza comes to Sifo with messages and delivers others via newly returned staff; not long before he can swipe a tablet or two from the large desk in Dooku’s study and not be glared at or lectured to over the forced delegation.

But some days, too, he follows Darth Tyranus.

It takes several months, too many injuries, and hundreds more uncomfortable moments before Tyranus gives way to Dooku, but as with all things between them, Sifo-Dyas’s persistence wins out. He doesn’t particularly _enjoy_ this victory, but clings to it nevertheless. Remembers he pushed for this when lingering at the edge of a room of Sith relics, barely holding himself together beneath the press of so many vile objects in one place. Remembers it when tucked into a corner, watching the hologram of a creature so mired in darkness he can _feel it_ thousands of light years away. Remembers it while watching the shadowy Sith converse with Tyranus and realizes the tangled web the man spins is slowly coiling around his own neck.

So sometimes hope is difficult.

And sometimes stubbornness passes for hope.

And sometimes… he has to watch his old friend appropriate his own desperate machinations and he wonders if a quick, inevitable death would have really been so much worse than the brutal, drawn out conflict his stubborn defiance of fate has once again enabled.

### 26 BBY, 2nd Month: Castle Serenno, Main Study

  


Jenza sets a heavy plate on a large desk and finally gains the attention she’s been vying for since she passed the doorway. “You have that look about you again.”

Dooku glances up from the small pile of pads, briefly scans the food presented and promptly returns to whatever he’d been working on when she first walked in.

She sighs and drifts around the side of the desk. “What look is that, Jenza?” He doesn’t look up at the awful imitation and she doesn’t expect him to. “Why, the look of a man who has stubbornly worked himself into a corner and refuses to admit defeat.”

Finally, his gaze shifts from the document in his hand to land on her in that way of his that she thoroughly blames on the Jedi Temple. He does, however, set the tablet aside and turn his chair to face her more directly. “Good evening, Jenza.”

“Good evening, Dooku,” she politely echoes with a nod of her head where a curtsy would have been twenty years ago when she wasn’t quite so stiff. “I’m going to assume none of that,” she continues with a prim gesture to the pile of work, “is a response to your niece’s dinner invitation?”

He doesn’t _quite_ sigh and pushes out of his chair. “The occasion?”

“Your grand-nephew’s engagement.” Jenza watches him glide closer with none of the stiffness of her own joints and none of the weakness in her muscles, to catch her gently by the elbow. Always a gentleman — if you can get to him. A faint smile tugs her lips as she allows him to guide her to a hearth and the large chairs before it.

“You mentioned this before,” he acknowledges while carefully settling her into one of the chairs. The plate floats along behind him, eventually circling around to land on a low table just before the low-burning fire.

“Last month.”

“A long time to wait for the announcement, isn’t it?”

“You were busy.”

Dooku pauses partway through pouring a glass of wine at the nearby dry bar. It’s just a moment’s hesitation — there and gone in one swift movement — but she catches it. “You _did_ want my help.”

“I also wanted my brother,” Jenza points out and, because she’s learned how little holding back actually helps her, adds, “not that my children have wholly realized I still _have one_.”

“There’s no need for dramatics,” he mutters, gliding over to the chair beside her own.

She arches an eyebrow. “They’ll be excited to hear you’re coming.”

“You shouldn’t make promises for me to break,” Dooku says and takes a contemplative sip of his wine. Years ago, he used to offer a glass. He never told her why he stopped, but she suspects a terrified doctor and familial privileges may have mixed to that end.

“I’ll be sure to inform Master Dyas, then.”

“ _Sifo_ -Dyas — it’s his entire name, Jenza.” The exasperation in his voice is worth it.

Jenza waves a hand dismissively. “You should bring him along. You know the children _adore_ him.” She knows she’s won when he chooses a piece of food over answering. Really, she’d been mystified when the Jedi Master had seemingly materialized out of nowhere so many years ago. She got over it pretty quickly, however. Her brother, she’s learned, has decided he only needs a single friend in his life, although she suspects that’s always been the case from her memories of old holocomms. She’s just grateful that Sifo-Dyas seems willing to shoulder that burden.

### 25 BBY, 7th Month: Castle Serenno, Count’s Private Chambers

  


“For the Force is strong.”

The soft light of a moon spills deeply into a sparse, if well-appointed, bedroom. This deep into the night, even Dark Lords of the Sith have little reason to be awake, let alone carefully unravelling ancient strips of cloth from the still shivering form of a Jedi Master. Sifo-Dyas leans against the shoulder still holding him up and tries to focus on the corner of a chair he can just make out from his awkward half-curl.

“…For the Force …is strong.”

Experience tells him not to close his eyes, or the images will return. Training tells him to steady his breathing or the nausea will overwhelm him. The quiet murmur of familiar words drones out the screaming rush chattering for attention even still. Slowly, he claws his way back to sanity.

“For all your insistence, you know this ritual does little to stem the tide,” Dooku lowly comments, deferent to Sifo-Dyas’s wracked nerves if not to his sensibilities, as he meticulously rolls the cloth without shifting his shoulder. The Count lifts his hand and his Force signature thrums, steady and strong against the frazzled edges of a signature still separating itself from the cosmic whole.

Sifo-Dyas swallows back the nausea and allows his presence in the Force to mimic the way his body leans against Dooku’s for support. “You cannot tell me… you do not think more clearly now,” he retorts, wincing against the hoarseness of a recently abused throat.

“I do not speak for myself.” Dooku’s signature flares again, softly, and Sifo doesn’t have to watch to know the gesture with which his friend settles the bandages back on to the nightstand. He sinks into the powerful presence he knows so well and accepts the cool relief of a glass of water hovering before him without comment. “You know I have no desire to allow the Dark Side free reign, but that doesn’t mean there are no _advantages_ —”

“Ah yes,” Sifo-Dyas dryly interrupts, “‘unlimited power’ and all that.” He clears his throat and pulls a long draught of water instead of continuing. Something passes into the Force, then, and Sifo steadies himself with the strength of the Force signature winding about his own, utterly incapable of the concern he knows he should have for the action.

“Your visions are worse except for when I can counter them. Do you think I do so with _the Light_?” Dooku doesn’t move to suit the sharpness of his words. His body holds the relaxed bend of extended meditation no matter the awkward position and constant support throughout.

Sifo-Dyas tilts the glass again to finish the water in lieu of an immediate reply. His friend knows better than to push the issue when he’s so freshly pulled from the still-cloying grasp of the Cosmic Force. So they sit in silence as he pulls his mind back together: Dooku saying nothing of the way he trembles, Sifo saying nothing of the warmth in Dooku’s signature as it drags him from eternity and grounds him in the present.

“What did you see?”

He blinks back the urge to drift off, focusing instead on directing the now empty cup back to another nightstand. “…In the morning, Doo.”

Darkness coils around him and he sinks into it with barely a thought for the quiet command that slips into his mind and pushes him towards mindless sleep. The visions slip away as the darkness deepens. Light or Dark… in the end, Dooku’s presence trumps both.

### 22 BBY, 5th Month: Castle Serenno, Second Tactical Room

  


“How can you go along with this?” Sifo-Dyas keeps his tone level, but the bite creeps into the edges regardless. It’s difficult, even for a Jedi, to wholly master the sheer amount of frustrated disappointment welling up from within.

Dooku waves off whomever trails at his heels and steps into the room alone instead. “You knew the plan.”

“I know what you _told them_.” Sifo steps away from the terminal with a broad gesture towards the contents sprawled large in holographic rendering of Hutt Space and newly shifted trade routes. “I didn’t think you were stupid enough to go through with it.”

“Insults, Sy?”

“You had Asajj kidnap a _child_ —”

“A _hutt_ —”

“A _child_!” Sifo-Dyas snaps the word with such force, Dooku actually pauses in his attempt to update the information displayed. “Force help me, Doo, this isn’t _you_.”

The Count gives a disbelieving huff and finishes requesting the updated information for the terminal. “A decade ago, you would have said the same of this entire war.”

“I may not have _agreed_ with you, but at least your reasons were _coherent_.” It’s unfair, Sifo thinks, that his words come out so tired when he is so legitimately owed anger. It won’t linger, though. Disappointment, frustration, even fear, but anger, somehow, is always too much to keep hold of. He slams a hand on the conference table just for the sake of releasing his frustration visually. “He’s just using you.”

Dooku’s expression is dry with just a faint twitch of irritation in the raise of his brow. “As I use him.”

Sifo-Dyas drops heavily into one of the chairs. “Do you? Because I don’t see how _actively losing your advantage_ helps win the war.”

“I know you’re aware winning isn’t the goal.”

“Well, maybe it _should be_.”

Dooku pauses his review long enough to give his companion an inscrutable look. “You think the Confederacy could win?”

Sifo-Dyas’s stare is withering. “Do you _think_ I would have gone behind the Council’s back to _commission an army_ if I didn’t?” He sighs, and the churning well of frustration-disappointment-fear drifts into the Force. “Which one of them convinced you otherwise? Plagueis?”

It’s difficult to tell if the tension in Dooku’s shoulders is from the lack of a title — Sifo will be damned before he affords the creature corrupting his friend anything more than a _name_ — or the sudden, very real option laid before him. Sifo-Dyas is even less sure of the timing in his suggestion, or whether it’s the best or worst thing for the Galaxy at large, but… He stares long and hard at the Sith standing where his friend should be and takes a chance.

“… Doo. I know this alliance was supposed to be a means to an end, but right now, it’s only _your_ means and _your_ end.” The words are soft but firm, and, more importantly, ring with the strength of his utter conviction.

It wouldn’t mean much to many — even other Force sensitives — that his belief is so rooted in the Force, but Dooku isn’t just _anyone_ , and Dooku… Dooku actually turns to look him in the eye for the first time since he walked through the door. “You tell me this _now_ , when the Confederacy can still recover, and you may doom the Galaxy to something much worse than a coordinated conflict.”

Sifo almost dares to hope he’s _actually_ getting through to the stubborn bastard. “I doomed the galaxy to a drawn-out conflict once already,” he answers, holding the gaze of a powerful Lord of the Sith more easily than he by all rights should.

Dooku’s brow furrows slightly. “A poor decision made in fear.”

Sifo-Dyas tilts his head in open agreement. “Can you say your decisions have been made any differently? Can you _really_ tell me that putting that - that _Sith_ or his puppet in charge is _really_ any better? That any of this ridiculous plot actually accomplishes what you wanted when you left?”

“They are never going to make it that far—”

“Doo.” Hope and blunt realism vie for dominance in Sifo-Dyas’s curt demand for attention. “You are powerful, but you are _one_ man trying to manipulate a conspiracy that — in your own words — spans hundreds of years. You can’t do it. Not now, not this late in the scenario. You’re too new — too _disposable_ — to them to have any real impact from within. If you’d just let yourself _think_ you’d see it for yourself.”

Over the years he’s spent here, Sifo-Dyas has seen Dooku’s goals shift and change. Still, he likes to think there’s a part of Dooku — the same part that once tried to reason with the Council about his friend’s visions of destruction on Protobranch — that doesn’t view the Confederacy as only a disposable tool. If nothing else, Sifo-Dyas knows that part of Dooku is what saved him, back on that moon over Oba Diah. He only hopes it’s enough to save Dooku too.

### 21 BBY, 4th Month: Castle Serenno, Training Halls

  


She doesn’t collapse until the door chases the tails of Dooku’s cape into the hall. Even then, it’s a slow, trembling, slide to the blood-splattered floor, no matter the complaint of seizing muscles and bone-deep exhaustion. Somehow, she just can’t seem to ease her hold on the curved hilt of a lightsaber in her hand. She draws a shuddering breath and slowly, shakily, exhales wavering tension into the Force.

“You should be better to her.” The Jedi’s voice is unmistakable, even muffled by the thick interior doors of Serenno Castle — or perhaps it’s just her stupid attachment to a man that reminds her so much of another.

“Ventress is a _Sith_ assassin.”

Asajj grins. It’s feral and spiked with vicious, spiteful _rage_ , but the triumph shines through. This, she bottles within, ignoring the familiar urge to snarl at a voice that’s not really there telling her to release that, too, into the Force. For all of Dooku’s insults, the man deigns to train only those he considers worthwhile and names very few of his associates _Sith_.

“Call her what you want, you’re training her and right now you’re only training someone to eventually kill you!” It’s been a while since she last heard Sifo-Dyas actively raise his voice in a public area. The war, perhaps, finally brought to bear? But just as she frowns at the shadows that twist in the hallway beyond, he drops his voice and hisses, “Betrayal is the way of the Sith. You _have_ to know that.”

“It is the way of the line of Bane. I’m hardly upholding that tradition.”

“Then you are still more _Jedi_ than Sith.”

Ventress snorts and struggles her uncooperative body into something that can vaguely be called a sitting position. The Force surges through her still, jumbled by adrenaline and the vestiges of hatred that always come to the fore when Dooku can actually be assed to train her. She closes her eyes and twists the spiking, riotous push-pull of rage-bitterness-hate down through her veins and out into the Force instead: finding every new injury along the way.

“Unfortunate for us all, then, that war requires more _Sith_.”

Several minutes pass before she opens her eyes again, utterly unsurprised to find Sifo-Dyas watching her from just inside the doorway. The way he stands — arms crossed and tucked into the sleeves of a brown robe, all but radiating calm — one could easily mistake him for an unworried master watching his padawan practice forms in the Temple gardens. The snarl she wants to accompany the thought arrives as a dry quirk of her lips and she gives in with an exasperated sigh.

“It’s creepy when you just stand there, you know.”

He _smirks_ — the bastard — and says only, “Then why don’t you come over here and I’ll send for dinner?”

Knowing the jig is up, she pointedly forces her saber hilts back into position at her waist before she loses all control of her arms. “What’s wrong? Too much blood for your delicate Jedi sensibilities?”

Sifo gives her a long, knowing look, and pushes the door open wider with a gesture and easy curl of the Force. A two tiered cart sits just outside the room, with an assortment of silver domes atop indicating dinner had, in fact, been spoken for already. She knows the second shelf is stacked with med kits the Jedi no doubt swiped from the medical staff some time earlier in the day, and feels a sardonic chuckle escape at the thought of some frantic medic swearing up and down there were four more last time they checked.

“The Count should be more careful… you clearly know the way to a girl’s heart,” she croons, managing to tilt her head in spite of the lingering pain and stiffness barely holding her upright. “Don’t tell me you’ll make me eat alone?”

He smiles, finally, tension slipping gently into the Force, and calls the cart over as he walks further in. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Young One.”

### 20 BBY, 6th Month: Castle Serenno, Estate Grounds

  


General Tann is an intense woman.

She holds herself with the assertive confidence of someone born and bred military, but seems barely two decades along when she arrives on Serenno. Everything about her is strangely foreign to a Jedi who has seen too much of the galaxy to be shocked by any of it. Blue skin that should mark her Pantoran is just a shade too pale, her hair a tad too dark, her gaze too bright — solid red and glowing.

“Chiss,” she tells him once, in heavily accented Basic, and repeats it again in some other language, the tones emphasized in a way that makes her smirk when he tries and fails to mimic them. He works on it. Her Basic improves much more rapidly.

The war keeps her busy — as an apprentice as much as a General — and he tries not to worry after her in the several months it’s been since he saw her last. Sifo-Dyas wonders when every relationship in his life became so complicated, but ignores the answer because he knows it centers on the same person it always has and Dooku is remarkably good at giving him headaches without even being present. He’s only just shifted his attention back to the present when Sev’rance looks up from her tablet and quirks an eyebrow.

For a woman who has only been training in the Force for the last couple of years, she’s _remarkably_ perceptive.

“Dooku,” he offers, dryly, and gives no further explanation.

Her lips quirk faintly, in that almost-smirk he’s been informed would be considered a scandalous lack of decorum between them on her homeworld, and her gaze drops back to the tablet. This is probably the closest he’s ever come to seeing her not working: outside in the warmth of the afternoon sun, sitting peacefully on a bench with only a single tablet on hand. That he knows its contents are doubtlessly work-related spoils the moment only slightly.

“You worry over him.”

“And you,” Sifo-Dyas acknowledges with a brief tilt of his head.

“And our enemies.” She scrolls, the red of her eyes reflecting mutely on the glass before her.

A little too perceptive. “The Jedi are not our enemies. The Republic… should not be.” He exhales slowly and pushes disappointment-sadness-loss into the Force.

“‘When two families fight, the greater family loses.’”

Sev’rance would have done well in the Temple, he thinks, not for the first time. She already has the habit of masters to quote vague sayings in lieu of giving proper answers. Sifo-Dyas feels gentle mirth tug at his lips in spite of the topic, inexplicably fond of yet another Dark Acolyte Dooku somehow dragged out of obscurity and threw into a galactic conflict.

“The greater family?” he eventually settles on.

It makes her pause, at least. Or perhaps something else catches her eye, since she uses the moment to open another screen, swiftly adding input with the one-handed finesse of someone who has known Core World tech her whole life. “Your Jedi. You say they believe we are all connected by the… ‘Force’. Like that.”

He has, at least, gotten more used to the way she pulls in aspects of conversations he only vaguely remembers having years earlier. “Yes… I suppose we do, at that.”

“You believed that when your Third Sight showed war.” Still, she doesn’t look up.

“I still do.”

“And you still prepared for it.” She looks up now, holding his gaze. “You chose your family over the greater family.”

Ah. Sifo-Dyas shakes his head lightly, allowing his expression to soften in the process. “At the time, I was trying to protect the greater.”

She smirks — sharp, and confidant — and he realizes too late he’s sprung a trap. “Because you have faith in the strength of your family, but acknowledge the weakness in the greater.”

There are times Sifo-Dyas is infinitely thankful he never has to face this war in the same way his compatriots do. Sitting here, among flowering hedges on a planet with a gentle sun and soft breezes, he can appreciate the craft and care of the tactical mind backing him into a corner far more than he ever could on the battlefield. “It is a shame,” he says, thoughtlessly indulgent in a way he never had the chance to be with a proper padawan of his own, “that you may never get to know that family, Sev’rance.”

The answer seems to come as a surprise to the young General. Her brows raise just slightly, which may as well be an expression of pure shock from the normally stoic woman. “You speak as if I do not know them well already.”

It’s almost a question. He shrugs lightly. “A single source is hardly enough to form an opinion.”

The surprise melts to neutral amusement once more. “I learn more of your family from battle than I have ever known from you.”

His own silent curiosity seems to finally draw her from her work, causing her to set the tablet beside her on the bench and gracefully stand to meet him. Taking the invitation, he welcomes her with a tilt of his head and directs them down a nearby path. At least he’s managed to force a break. Somehow.

Sev’rance clasps her hands in the small of her back and strides forward with the same, radiating confidence she tackles every task ever laid before her. “Your Jedi,” she begins, in a way he has come to understand means more to her than it can to him, “believe strength of the individual supports the group. In this, our families agree. In this, they are _predictable_.

“They will always put themselves before harm, because they believe themselves better equipped. They will always strive to save as many civilians as they can, because they value life. They will engage their opponents honorably, because they value goodwill. They act with compassion, because they value it more than power.” She pauses, then, lips twisting into a sardonic smirk. “They prefer to strike second, if given the chance. In this… our families agree.”

The words sound almost rote — another artifact of a civilization he’ll never know — and not for the first time, Sifo-Dyas finds himself appreciating the distance it creates. He knows it’s ridiculous for a _Sith Apprentice_ to remind him so strongly of the Jedi, but he can’t help the fondness that surges up regardless. He draws a slow breath and wonders if this is what Dooku felt all those years ago. Did he suddenly _know_ when his padawans were ready for the trials? Did it strike with the same certainty the Force sears image-sound-feeling into his mind? Did he look at them as Sifo looks at Sev’rance now and think “what a brilliant knight they’ll be”?

He exhales the painful what-if into the Force and says only, “I regret that you may never know the Force in peace, Sev’rance Tann.”

Unexpectedly, her expression turns vaguely wistful and she gives a light shake of her head. “I have Seen as you do, Sifo-Dyas. I am where I should be.”

“If the Jedi had found you—” The words escape before he can properly wrangle them.

“I would not have the skills the Count requires,” she uncharacteristically interrupts, then turns to face him directly. “There is nothing _wrong_ with being a powerful warrior, Sifo-Dyas. In this, the two of our families disagree, but it is a minor contention. There is no _true_ conflict in serving both; your Jedi are practical to this.” Her stance relaxes, just the bit and she presses her lips together in the only subtle tell Sifo has ever seen her give. “Do not regret our circumstances. I do not. My master forges me well … and for the rest, I have you.”

### 19 BBY 1st Month: Castle Serenno, Situation Room

  


Quite suddenly, everything seems like a _terrible_ idea.

Sifo-Dyas sucks in a quick breath and braces against the tell-tale prickle at the edge of his shields. Everything about the timing is, as usual, absolutely abysmal. At the very least, it’s only Sev’rance he has to contend with abruptly shifting all of her attention from a console feed to him alone.

“Do you See, Sifo-Dyas?” Tension stiffens her tone into something formal, but it’s an abiding sense of anticipation-empathy that washes into the Force between them.

He can’t help the amused twitch of his lips. “I honestly can’t tell if you are… excited or concerned.”

She grins, a sudden splash of rakish emotion that has become more frequent the longer she stays on Serenno. “Can’t I be both? What is reward without risk?”

“… Safe?” he tries, but can’t fully stop the wince that follows. The pressure on his mental shields builds slowly, and as uncomfortable as it is, it may be something they can wait out. Usually, the Force rips his mind away without warning, but sometimes… Sev’rance stands from her chair and he belatedly realizes she must have said something while he was lost in assessing the building assault on his psyche. He raises a hand in an ultimately unsuccessful bid to forestall her aid and says only, “It will pass.”

Her expression blanks and another, deeper feeling of concern settles into the Force. She stops at an arm’s length, red eyes narrowing as she watches him in the same manner she assesses battle readiness just before the fray. Eventually, she settles on, “The Count will be greatly displeased with me if you are wrong.”

Sifo gives a low huff of laughter. “I’m not that delicate, young one — and _you're_ not that disposable.”

The door swings open before she can reply, turning both of them to watch as Dooku sweeps into the room with irritable purpose. Sev’rance sees something he can’t, but it’s hard to tell precisely what, because that’s the moment his vision doubles. The horrible, creeping certainty from before crashes into his shields, shunting them aside like flimsiplast before a wave of images that layer over the people and the room like a misty holovid.

> The foggy outline of Sev’rance turns to Dooku for an update — and dissolves into the image of a cringing General Grievous.

Before him, he can still see her lips move, but it’s impossible to hear over the thundering rush of could-have-might-have-will. Dooku turns away from her, eyes narrowing as they land on Sifo-Dyas —

> sharp, and a feral yellow. He raises his hand

— a pulse of tension-demand-possession thunders into the Force, knocking the air from his lungs. Dooku’s gaze doesn’t waver as he raises a hand —

> and his hackles raise with the air pressure. There’s a snap-flicker of ozone as it coalesces in sparks at the tips of Dooku’s fingers. He remember this. The searing jolt that grips his muscles from within and tears them from his bones —

“… for the Force is strong.”

Clarity.

The present snaps back into place, the overlay dissipated like fog before a rising sun. Dooku waits, watching him with eyes that have only ever been brown, and then slowly drops his hand. Sev’rance, at his side, is still frowning at Sifo-Dyas, one hand gripping the curved hilt at her waist, clearly still hearing the warning in the Force and uncertain of its origins.

Sifo-Dyas draws a slow breath and exhales just as carefully, shunting anxiety-nausea-fear into the Force. When had Dooku’s signature gotten so brilliant and warm? And close?

“… It’s gone,” is all he says, shaking his head lightly and collapsing weakly back into his chair — when had he stood up? — before his legs give out entirely.

Sev’rance falls back to parade rest and looks expectantly back to her master.

Dooku watches him for a long moment, clearly weighing his next words. “… It’s over.”

Sifo furrows his brow. “What is?”

“The war.”

Sev’rance, for the first time since Sifo-Dyas met her years ago, stares openly, her shock and confusion loud without his shields to buffer it. He’s not sure he fares any better.

“… How?”

“The Sith are gone. The Confederacy stands alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (❁°͈▵°͈)
> 
> So. I realize that was kind of a huge timeline dump and apologize profusely for the lack of ObiKin to ease it! Basically, this turned into a highlight reel that either needed to happen all at once or sporadically through the next chapters. In the end, it seemed less confusing to do it all together.
> 
> ###### Cross my heart and PROMISE Obi-Wan and Anakin come back next chapter!
> 
> **On Sifo-Dyas:** We are basing like 99% of Sifo-Dyas’s personality and his relationship with Dooku on the book [Dooku: Jedi Lost](https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B07VF1VQGR/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_search_asin_title?ie=UTF8&psc=1), by Cavan Scott. If you’re looking for something to read, I _highly_ recommend taking a gander. If you’re used to Legends material, sorry if our changes seem dramatic?
> 
> Additionally, I realize we didn’t _completely_ answer the question of “How is Sifo-Dyas alive?” at this point. Sifo-Dyas and Dooku have an extra ten years or so of storyline that we’ve got dog-eared for part two, so it’s there, it’s just not as important as understanding the effect Sifo-Dyas being alive and around Dooku has on the Timeline, so I covered that instead. (Also, I figured you’d be more interested in getting the ObiKin reaction to this so…)
> 
> **The important take-aways are:**
> 
>   * They’re All Alive Through The End of the War
>   * Sifo-Dyas being around is a large part of that
>   * Sev’rance isn’t Grievous and they fight differently
>   * Castle Serenno is full of messy relationships
>   * I swear ObiKin are the primary movers and shakers of this fic and will be back next chapter (σ ゜д゜)σ
> 

> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> _**32 BBY** _
> 
>   * _< Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis doesn’t die!_
>   * _Sifo-Dyas travels to Oba Diah_  
>  _< Shatterpoint> Doesn’t die, ends up on Serenno with Dooku. It’s complicated._
> 

> 
> _**22 BBY** _
> 
>   * _< Shatterpoint> Sev’rance Tann doesn’t die!_
>   * _Fun Times With Jabba’s Kid_ ("Mission to Jabba's Palace" Story Arc)  
>  _< Shatterpoint> Sifo-Dyas makes a convincing case for the Confederacy._
> 

> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * _The Departure of the Sith_
>   * Battle of Sundari  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn’t
>   * Separatist Movements abruptly change
>   * Ahsoka’s Trial / Leaving The Order  
>  Tholme tells Obi-Wan to keep his lineage in check because shit’s getting real
>   * Obi-wan Negotiates General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatist  
>  <Shatterpoint> (obviously this never happened in Canon, but it basically replaces all of Anakin’s bad decisions post Ahsoka so we’ll call it a shatterpoint)
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin take a vacation to Yavin 4
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at Phindar Spacestation and are found by Ahsoka
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at an unnamed spacestation on the Perlemian Trade Route and buy a bus
> 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep until the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
> 



	9. In Which Palpatine Is Thwarted By Literally Everyone He’s Ever Allied With

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin loses a padawan, several conglomerates lose their heads, Obi-Wan has no idea what he’s doing, and Dooku somehow turns several wrongs into a right. Sifo-Dyas would like more wine.
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “I Swear” by All-4-One
> 
> Serious Song Rec: “What The Water Gave Me” by Florence + The Machine

### 19 BBY, 2nd Month: Castle Serenno, Main Study

Dooku is gone for three days before Sifo-Dyas starts to worry.

It’s not _entirely_ due to the man sweeping grimly out of the castle mere hours after announcing the departure of a faction Sifo had thought largely uninvolved in the day-to-day process of the war. It’s not the complete lack of details about where, exactly, his old friend is running off to on his own, without any apparent backup. It’s not even that this information was given in an irritable huff between an impromptu strategy meeting that also revealed the death of Darth Plagueis — something about which Sifo-Dyas would have very much appreciated more details.

< “Inconsequential,” Dooku declares with a wave of his hand and that’s that, or at least until the emergency is over and Sifo-Dyas can pry the rest out with persistence and wine. >

No, largely, the worry festers because without the Count present Sifo-Dyas finds his access to information on the war suddenly limited, and anything beyond _that_ all but impossible to find. The citizens of the capital are kind enough and the noble houses largely accommodating, but they don’t actually _know_ anything of the galaxy at large. It’s not Dooku’s fault, per se, but he’s also never spent a good deal of time correcting it, either.

So Sifo-Dyas waits.

The problem is, he’s never been particularly good at doing nothing. It’s the same impulse that got him into this mess to begin with and it’s only been cultivated since. The Temple taught him to listen to his instincts, but when his instincts blare incoherent warnings and wrap his vision in crawling shadow, it makes his impulses seem, well, _odd_ to the outside view. So it was, years ago, when he grabbed a medkit, stole Dooku’s lunch, and spent an afternoon trading barbs with a heavily injured Sith Assassin. So it remains now when he silently guides a Sith Apprentice through a Jedi meditation exercise in an effort to avoid thinking about things he has no control over.

Sev’rance takes surprisingly well to the technique — always has, really, to the parts of the Jedi teachings that require dedication and patience. He’s tried only a few times to share the practice with Ventress before learning enough of her to trade blows instead. The assassin is a far better duelist than he, but whatever her words, her actions always demand he stay regardless. She, too, has vanished into the night — no doubt at her master’s word — and he carefully observes his curiosity-concern-worry over the matter before guiding it gently into the Force.

A steady thrum of curiosity-focus-determination echoes back across the short distance between Jedi Master and Sith Apprentice. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know Sev’rance’s attention hasn’t wavered since they began — straight-backed, kneeling, red eyes trained on the small tangle of ribbon dangling between them. In the beginning, there’d been a faint layer of amusement as well. It had lasted throughout the entire time he’d spent slowly walking her through the careful give and take of control required for the two of them to successfully knot and unknot the ribbon, dissipating only after she realized the amount of attention required to continue the exercise.

It’s a good way to pass the time, at least. It won’t be long until she can do it with her eyes closed, he thinks, comparing the progress instinctively with Dooku, who learned in a day what took him a week —

“Your mind wanders.” The ribbon slips slightly with her words, but he takes over swiftly to prevent its fall. Her signature presses out, using his hold to guide her own again. “Yet you are present.”

“No one will remain focused forever,” he answers, still adrift in the flow of the exercise. “Thoughts always arise. Acknowledge them, then let them pass.”

Her lips quirk, but this time the ribbon folds under her guidance. “When we began, I thought this an exercise for your ‘younglings’.”

Sifo-Dyas cracks his eyes open then, based on some unexplained impulse to watch her expression when he asks, “And now?”

Her answer is lost to motion: the swift and sure return to her feet, lightsaber drawn and lit as she spins to face the door. There’s another tense moment before he registers the same rolling thunder approaching in the Force that doubtlessly spawned her sudden movement, but even then he only has a foreboding sense of curiosity that drags him upright just as the door swings open. It’s the second time in four days that Dooku sweeps regally through a doorway with the sparks of danger at his heels, but it’s the first time the Force doesn’t crash into him in the process.

Sev’rance re-holsters her saber so quickly, it’s easy to think the red glow was only ever the phosphoric glimmer of her eyes, and snaps quickly into a formal salute instead. “Congratulations—”

“It was hardly _difficult_.” Dooku scans the room with a tight expression before turning his attention back to Sev’rance. The Force curls around him, cloying and sick with excitement. “Send Vandalor now. Phindar or Botajef will suffice — whichever gets the word out faster.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sifo-Dyas steps closer as Sev’rance turns for the door. “And tell the staff the Count isn’t to be bothered for the rest of the day,” he adds before any follow up can be given.

Sev’rance replicates her salute to Sifo-Dyas directly, catching his wary gaze with a distinctly sharp one and saying something formal and quick in a language he only knows bits and pieces of before making a swift exit. He’s pretty sure he catches something about ‘care’ and ‘sky’, with the Force pressing trust heavily into the rest of the phrase. Then, a tug on the ribbon in his hand turns him back to the problem at hand.

“The Ribbon Forms?” Dooku says, and for a split second they’re back in the Temple and his old friend is teasing him for his preferred method of decompressing after a particularly stressful mission.

The roll of thunder in Dooku’s Force signature drags him back to the present. “Where did you go?”

Dooku turns away, perfectly calm, expertly collected. If Sifo-Dyas didn’t know the man’s presence in the Force more clearly than his own, it would be so easy to miss the dark churn of power humming just slightly off key. “I had business with the Leadership Council.” He gestures broadly to one of the chairs in the seating area by the hearth and sweeps by to collect his usual glass from the dry bar.

“Business,” Sifo-Dyas echoes with a frown, turning after, but not sitting until a glass of wine is pressed into his hand as well. “Why would you bother letting them know?” It’s the first in a long list of questions, but, considering the man’s utter distaste for the council and the various conglomerates it represents, he feels it the most pressing.

“I didn’t,” Dooku says, smug contentment all but radiating as he settles regally into his own chair.

The sense of foreboding returns. “Then why—”

“I killed them.”

“You _what_?” Sifo-Dyas manages to set his glass down before he drops it, but it’s a near thing.

Dooku’s expression slips into open amusement and he takes a moment to savor a sip of wine before answering. “You were right; I feel much better now that I no longer have to deal with them.”

“ _Doo_ , you can’t just — you know that’s not what I —”

“Yes, however, you’ll find I already have.”

### 19 BBY, 5th Month: Jedi Temple, Knight Anakin Skywalker’s Assigned Rooms

Obi-Wan finds Anakin in Ahsoka’s room, because of _course_ he does. He never bothered checking anywhere else in the first place. Wouldn’t have, even if Anakin wasn’t a ball of tightly-wound betrayal-hurt-rage spitting restlessly like a white-hot homing beacon just beyond his perception at all times.

So it’s not really a surprise when Anakin’s response to his entrance is to haul his shields up higher, drop a surprisingly light bag on to a regulation couch, and flop down dramatically beside it. “I don’t want to hear it,” he says to his hands.

Obi-Wan fights the urge to cross his arms and takes a moment to scan the room instead. The ratcheting tension stretches through the silence, but he knows he needs the time because _one of them_ needs to be clear-headed. One of them needs to be rational. And he’s not even sure he has the right to ask that of his former padawan right now.

Eventually, he exhales a soft: “You won’t—”

“It’s all banthashit!” The words are, surprisingly, the most violent part of the explosion. “Expelling her just so she can get railroaded through a trial? And then what? What was going to happen if I hadn’t figured it out? Were we just going to — to _abandon_ her? After everything she’s done — everything she’s been through — we just … we just…”

“… Let her go.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, of course.

The glare Anakin shoots him is murderous, but he doesn’t move from his spot. The tangle of emotion just beyond his perception shrinks — a molten core of incandescent rage — and retreats further from his own wards. Anakin just fists his hands more tightly together, channeling most of the restrained energy into the rapid bounce of his knee, and jerks his gaze back down to his hands.

Oh.

“Don’t tell me I can’t be upset.”

“Anakin—”

“ _Don’t_!” Another, shuddering breath and he rubs his still flesh thumb over the small trail of beads dangling from tightly clenched hands. The slightest measure of comfort slips into the Force. “It wasn’t _right_. None of it was — none of it was right and I—”

“You’re right,” Obi-Wan interrupts, finally stepping closer when the stunned silence allows him the seconds he needs to slip unthreateningly to Anakin’s side. “You’re right,” he repeats when his erstwhile padawan tenses against his sudden closeness, “and I’m not here to tell you what not to do.”

Anakin eases his defensive curl just the bit, blinking back the tangled knot of feeling that dims somewhere in Obi-Wan’s periphery. “There’s… so little left.” The words are so small, so quiet after the thunder of emotion that he almost misses them. “I don’t… know what to— I didn’t find her commlink, at least. I think she has it.”

It’s too much. Obi-Wan can tell well before he lowers the mental wards surrounding their bond, but it’s _because_ it’s so overwhelming that he does. He doesn’t have the peace and serenity and surety of cause that he wants to be able to instill into the bond, but he can help unravel the mess. Anakin doesn’t look up, tracing Ahsoka’s padawan braid like a rosary as he, with a surprising amount of hesitation, carefully lowers his own shields.

The crash of emotion-imagery-thought never hits. Instead, a slow, viscous sludge sears injustice-anger-helplessness-fear inch by terrible inch along the Force between them. Obi-Wan restrains a pained cringe to a tight wince, and leans over to lay a hand over the beads and the hands worrying them.

“You did nothing wrong.”

“Why didn’t you stop them?”

“Do you honestly think I didn’t try?”

The heat relents. Anakin sighs and the tension-uncertainty-fear finally rushes out into the Force. In the relief that follows, Obi-Wan flushes the bond with empathy-pride-support and tries not to let his thoughts wander out so far that Anakin will notice the tenuousness of his own hold on calm.

“… I should have followed her.”

Obi-Wan’s heart twists with the words. Not out of fear, or concern, or even sympathy, but because he knows with absolute certainty that Anakin leaving means his own departure. Perhaps not immediately, or even when it matters, because for all his personal loyalties, he still has a duty to fulfill, but _inevitably_ Anakin’s departure will be his own. It’s been that way since the day he set his master’s dying words over the Council’s decision and it’s stayed that way through every trial and tribulation since.

“Not now,” slips out before he can think of anything better and Anakin startles in his hold, twisting to blink through the roll of surprised confusion that permeates the bond in seconds. Obi-Wan firms his grip and meets Anakin’s gaze, stubbornly standing by words he never meant to say. “In time—”

“You’re not telling me _not_ to follow her.” It’s more of a flat statement than he expected based on the confused uncertainty swirling through the bond.

Obi-Wan sighs and pushes himself to his feet, needing the physical space to gather his thoughts. “Ahsoka can take care of herself, but… I cannot say if the same had happened to you that I would not have followed.” He would have been younger, of course, and there wouldn’t have been a war on, and he wouldn’t be responsible for the lives of so many — “So no, as I said, I am not here to tell you what to do. I am, however, asking you to consider… delaying any such plans.”

“So you tracked me down to my padawan’s rooms to… _not_ tell me not to chase after her, or collect her things, or … or meditate it off?” Anakin’s brow furrows as he _feels_ more of what’s not being said rather than understanding any of it. “Why?” Blunt, and to the point as always, but at least it means Obi-Wan has his attention.

The problem is… he really shouldn’t be giving an explanation. Force, he barely has one _himself_. At least, nothing more than the ambiguous hints and ephemeral rumors tucked between significant looks and carefully phrased intelligence reports. It’s as if the whole Council is holding its breath — and has been for weeks.

Well, he decides with a shrug for the suspicious bemusement aimed at him, it won’t be the first time he’s defied the Council. Qui-Gon would be proud, at least.

“Because,” he answers on a sigh, “the Council has reason to believe we may soon have a very real chance to end this blasted war.”

Anakin’s gaze narrows. “Who are you and what have you done with Obi-Wan?”

It’s an effort, but he manages not to roll his eyes at the question. “ _Anakin_.” But the molten rage-fear-uncertainty is already cooling beneath the too-affectionate flood of confused amusement and so he changes topics to maintain the mood. “I suppose the bag means you don’t intend to move your things over?”

“Master, _what_?” The level of sheer bewilderment that suffuses the bond would be alarming if Obi-Wan didn’t already harbor the suspicion that Anakin quite literally does not understand _whose_ these rooms actually are.

He just shakes his head and turns to offer his hand instead. “Shall we go back to our own rooms, then?”

They’re _his_ rooms, of course. They’ve been his since he chose to believe in his fallen master and train a lost slave boy to be the most powerful Jedi Knight in centuries. Of course, they’ve been _his and Anakin’s_ rooms for over a decade now, so he may as well admit it’s not going to change any time soon. He knows he should be more concerned — over the intensity of emotion that had greeted him, or the immediacy with which Anakin takes his hand, or the warmth that spreads from that small show of trust.

But in the bond the molten knot of emotion untangles, his own disjointed concerns ease, and he just can’t bring himself to think poorly of something that carries them both so well.

### 19 BBY, 5th Month: Castle Serenno

“You’re free to go.”

That’s it. After dragging her out of a pit on Rattatak, shoving her into the middle of a war she had no stake in, and demanding the impossible time and time again. That’s all she gets. Dooku has never been an easy man to deal with, but some part of her believed he at least thought well enough of her to _keep her around_. Especially now, after weathering those first, more volatile years of pain and struggle and triumph and failure over and over before he ever sent her out into the wild or trusted her with anything.

Asajj even thought she was starting to understand the man — worse, she thinks she still might. So as rage bubbles up from within to bind her heart in tight coils, it’s not the cultivation of hatred and anger and revenge that she focuses on. It’s the fact that this might be the first speck of kindness the bastard has ever shown her. The confusing spiral of thought leads her not to her own room — she’s never been foolish enough to leave anything there, anyway — but deep into the Count’s private wing instead.

“I’m leaving,” she says the moment she stalks out on to the private veranda overlooking the forested cliffs just beyond.

Sifo-Dyas turns from the vista with a surprised blink and part of her wonders how, in the chaos of his dreams, he didn’t see this coming. Is she too small of a thing for a man subjected to hellscapes the size of planets, or just not important enough to the Force and the future of the galaxy? But he studies her a moment before replying with a confused, “I didn’t think he’d have a mission so soon after—”

“For good, Jedi.”

“… Oh.”

It’s his surprise, pleased though it is, that pushes the rest of the words from her mouth. “So, do you need a ride or what?” She crosses her arms and lifts her chin and tries not to think about why she makes the offer.

Sifo-Dyas may be Jedi, but he isn’t the same man who saved _her_ on Rattatak, and he certainly doesn’t need saving — not that she would ‘save’ either of them. But… but he also struggled through the same darkness, and shared stolen meals, and showed her all the subtleties in the Force her own master never even hinted at. And she knows, with a certainty bordering on prescience, that he’s the reason she even has the _chance_ to walk away.

So she’ll leave. They both know it. But she won’t abandon him.

The moment he smiles, she knows his answer.

“Thank you, Asajj.”

“Funny way to say no,” she huffs, but relaxes her stance.

He shakes his head. “You know I can’t—”

“You _won’t_.”

He shrugs a shimmer of mirth and affection into the Force. “I won’t.”

It’s the answer she expects, but she’s not sure it’s the answer she wants. Force, she’s not sure what her plan would have been had he taken her up on the offer. She just knows she had to make it. Now that she’s here, and he’s just as ridiculous as Jedi always are, all she can do is slide a hand over her face as if pressing back a headache.

“All you Jedi are too stubborn for your own good.”

He chuckles. She pushes the point with a pointed raise of an eyebrow, but if anything, this only warms his expression further and he spreads his hands to cede the point. “We are.”

Ventress sighs then, exasperated and all too understanding of the bizarre tangle of emotions that keeps him here and sends her away, and digs a datacard out of her belt before she can think better of it. Training tells her not to leave a trail. Experience tells her not to trust the loyalties or the strength of someone so mired in someone else. Instinct tosses the card to him regardless.

“No promises.” That she’ll keep the same contact information. That she’ll ever reply. That she’ll ever even check it again.

Sifo-Dyas tucks the card into the sleeves of a well-worn brown robe and bows in one solemn motion. “May the Force be with you, Asajj Ventress.”

She offers a regal nod and turns to leave. “Don’t get yourself killed, Sy. He’s not worth it.”

* * *

The trunk snaps open with a clang after one sure thump of her fist, and she’s two steps past by the time a bulky figure scrambles ungracefully over the edge and rolls on to the floor of her ship. “Get moving, I want you shotgun.”

Quinlan grouses under his breath and shoves a pair of wayward dreads out of his face. “Doesn’t feel like we’re flying.”

“Get the man a _medal_ ,” Ventress drawls, already halfway out of the small room before the Jedi bothers to get to his feet.

She’s already buckled in by the time he joins her, frowning openly as he peers out the _Banshee’s_ front viewport. “Do you even _remember_ the last thing you had in that trunk?”

Ventress smirks, and fires up the engines.

Vos sighs his irritation into the Force and drops into the co-pilot chair regardless. “The whole point was to _stay_ —”

“Change of plans.”

He buckles in as well as the ship pulls away from the landing pad. “So I noticed. What’s going on?”

“ _Apparently_ , your job just got a lot easier.”

“ _Asajj_ , my _job_ involves being _on Serenno_.”

“Not anymore, my _dear Jedi_ ,” she coos, tossing a smirk over her shoulder as she guides the ship upward. “Now, be a good Shadow and watch our backs. The Count isn’t known for being the most magnanimous, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t expect this to go to plan.”

“There’s a plan?” Vos mutters, nevertheless engaging manual override for the guns with more familiarity than he should probably have for the personal ship of a Sith Assassin.

Ventress’s smirk deepens to a grin and she cranks the throttle with a cackle of wicked glee.

### 19 BBY, 5th Month: Jedi Temple, Main Hangar

“If you're here to dissuade me from bringing Anakin, Master Yoda, I’m afraid I’m hardly the one to stop him,” Obi-Wan calmly announces, several minutes after the old Grand Master joins his pensive vigil.

Yoda gives a quiet hum of acknowledgement, his gaze resting on the bustle of activity surrounding the vessel that will ferry The Negotiator to Serenno and a chance for peace. “Know that we did, when recused yourself _you_ did, Master Kenobi.” He sets his cane before him, both hands curling over the top as he settles in to observe the loading process.

Obi-Wan suspects a good deal of the old master’s attention rests specifically on the young knight ripping methodically through every system on the ship, but supposes there’s no real point in calling it out. After all, his own attention has hardly wavered from the desperate focus drawn taut as a trembling tripwire across their Force bond, and he doubts very much that it will be shifting any time soon.

“Then the Council has reached a decision regarding the Chancellor’s request?” He tries not to frown too openly, but it would be difficult even without the tightly contained irritation-suspicion-insult rattling down the tripwire.

“… Concerned, we are, that such a request would ever be made,” Yoda says with surprising forthrightness.

Obi-Wan inclines his head and recrosses his arms in thought. “While I understand his want to appoint a representative for the task at hand—” An understatement. The fact that Dooku sent the invitation to the Jedi and the Jedi _alone_ was a slap in the face to a governing body the Count never had much respect for to begin with, but ultimately unsurprising, no matter the fuss and fluster it caused in the meantime. “— I must admit to a good deal of discomfort over the idea that _any_ part of the Republic should have a representative _on_ the Jedi High Council, let alone the office of the Chancellor directly.”

Yoda gives another thoughtful hum, his ears twisting up slightly, and falls to silence once more. In spite of the harried rush beyond their alcove and the feeling of immediacy buried beneath, Obi-Wan finds himself quietly appreciating the small bubble of serenity Yoda’s presence creates for them both. He tries gently pressing some of that peace into the bond, causing the tripwire to tremble uncertainly. Across the room, Anakin pauses halfway through lifting a hand to one of the outside panels, glances down at the tablet in his other hand, and then the tripwire slackens ever so slightly and the panel — as well as all its bolts and latches — flies into the air.

Well, Obi-Wan thinks as amused fondness slips into the bond, despite all the ways Anakin is naturally more talented, Obi-Wan’s always been better at simply _waiting_.

“Much has young Skywalker learned since his knighting,” Yoda intones, his voice both solemn and carrying a hint of tiredness at the edges. Still, his ears swivel forward as he speaks, attention clearly on the young knight waving off a distraught mechanic as he draws some sort of cylinder out of the bowels of the ship. “Much of _war_ and war _alone_. The way of the Jedi, this is _not_.”

“Master Yoda—”

He taps his cane on the floor and turns to look up at Obi-Wan directly. “Learn to make peace, he should.”

Obi-Wan releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and allows himself a dry smile. “I’ll be sure to let Anakin know he doesn’t need to weld himself into the frame.”

Yoda lets out a soft harrumph and turns his attention back to the knight in question and the Twi’lek mechanic he’s currently hovering through the open panel. “Gone with you regardless, Skywalker would have.”

There’s no reason to fight the obvious truth, so Obi-Wan offers an unrepentant but not impolite shrug. “As I said, I am hardly the one to stop him.”

“The only one who could have _tried_ , you are, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

It’s been several years since Obi-Wan felt like a chastised padawan, but he’s fairly certain most Councilors share this feeling during occasional discussions with Yoda, and thus doesn’t take too much offense. Besides, he wouldn’t be his master’s pupil if he didn’t give the Councilors headaches every now and again.

“You know there is no other I would rather have at my back, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan simply answers. “I feel better knowing his presence is sanctioned, but I am afraid I would not have stopped him either way.” It’s nothing new, but saying it aloud is something else altogether. He brushes a hand over his beard and adds, “We may be accepting an invitation for peace talks, but they are contingent on entering enemy territory. I would be remiss to ignore that.”

Yoda exhales quietly then, lapsing into a thoughtful silence once more. Several minutes pass to the quiet tap of his fingers against the top of his cane. In the hangar beyond, Anakin has fished out the Twi’lek and the two of them are in deep discussion over the spread of parts hovering in the air between them. A few minutes in, another mechanic joins them.

“Approved the Chancellor’s request, we have.”

Obi-Wan blinks, turning his attention sharply down to Yoda directly.

“A Jedi Master, Anakin Skywalker is not. Prepared for the responsibility, he is not.” Yoda taps his cane sharply and turns to meet Obi-Wan’s gaze again, his own sharp, but his ears drooping wearily. “Requested _Councilors_ , Count Dooku has. Councilors, we will send.”

“… Master Yoda…” Obi-Wan manages to withhold part of his grimace by hiding most of it behind the hand hovering over his mouth, but it’s not much of a win, all things considered. “I understand your decision on the matter.” _But Anakin won’t appreciate it, regardless_ , goes unsaid.

“Understand Count Dooku, I do not,” Yoda continues, frowning as he slowly drops his gaze and turns it back to the impromptu brainstorming session that has cropped up by the aft engines. “Understand my padawan, I still might. Expect you, he does. No one else. However. _Together_ always have you succeeded. And so, together you will be.”

### 19 BBY, 6th Month: Castle Serenno, Count’s Private Landing Pad

Serenno is nothing like they expect — which isn’t difficult, given the tension layering the cabin just before they drop out of hyperspace. Anakin drops them stubbornly _on top_ of the blockade, no matter Obi-Wan’s entreaties otherwise, and the tension only increases from there. Let The Chosen One never be called anything but _dramatic_.

So Obi-Wan distracts himself from the terrifying show of piloting skill and trust in the Force by hastily manning the communications console. His hails are met with confusion, irritation, and strings of Binary that only Artoo bothers replying to. He tries not to think about the translation and decides right there and then that none of their entrance into Separatist space needs to be detailed in their report back.

Somehow, in spite of Anakin’s apparent determination to give the enemy every reason to shoot them on sight, they’re let through.

Once they enter the atmosphere, Obi-Wan unbuckles and moves to stand by the front viewport, one hand steadying him against the — for once — gentle maneuvers Anakin takes to slow their approach. He watches a large city sprawl out beneath them as they spiral slowly to its outskirts and the cliffside castle that dominates one side of the ancient city walls. It feels wrong, somehow, to see the lively bustle of day-to-day life spring up around a place he knows houses a Dark Lord of the Sith.

But then, maybe he’s wrong about that, too.

They land without incidence, and a single person strides out to meet them. A person. Not a droid. Something like emptiness and suspicion flits across a half-open bond and Obi-Wan finds himself immediately agreeing with the assessment. He’s spent the whole trip half-expecting to walk straight into a trap.

Just past the gangway, however, the crisply uniformed woman in black snaps into a perfect salute and says, “Welcome to Serenno, Councilor Kenobi.”

Anakin harrumphs from the side, arms crossed and disgruntled.

Her lips twitch into a tight smirk, red eyes gleaming with barely restrained mirth. “… And you, Jedi Knight Skywalker.”

“General Tann.”

Obi-Wan glances between the two with a raised brow and says only, “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage.”

Anakin waves off the explanation with a vague hand signal for ‘later’ that promises some levity if his disgruntled expression is anything to go by. “General Sev’rance Tann,” he introduces, then adds pointedly, “She doesn’t usually make it off her ship.”

Her brow raises. “Excuse my ignorance. I was told to expect only _Councilors_.”

“And so you _got_ Councilors,” Anakin snaps before Obi-Wan has a chance to sigh.

“The Count is expecting you, Councilor Kenobi,” is all the general says, turning to guide them in to the castle. She looks completely unbothered by Anakin’s response, although Obi-Wan could swear she’s enjoying this.

Anakin, of course, is already sparking with irritation in the bond.

Obi-Wan inhales calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hookay. SO. ヾ(@゜∇゜@)ノ. Cookies to anyone who can guess why Sev’rance is so amused!
> 
> **The Leadership Council:** This is a little unclear from source to source, so I just want to specify that the (Separatist) Leadership Council is the executive branch of the Confederacy and is largely composed of the heads of major conglomerates. The Confederacy was basically funded by and founded by corporations who more or less bought their seat at this table. (Think Apple/Google/Amazon/Exxon/etc… deciding to annex Australia or something.)
> 
> Basically, they’re everything Dooku hates about the Republic when he initially gives up on it and then Jedi Order way back when. So, he’s more or less taking over the Executive branch all on his own with this move, because fuck it? Also, Anakin’s not available for indiscriminate slaughter this time around, soooo _some_ Sith had to step up their game. ᕙ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ᕗ (In case you missed it: this is the group Palps sends him to eradicate on Mustafar in the original)
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> _**32 BBY** _
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis doesn’t die!
>   * Sifo-Dyas travels to Oba Diah  
>  <Shatterpoint> Doesn’t die, ends up on Serenno with Dooku. It’s complicated.
> 

> 
> **22 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Sev’rance Tann doesn’t die!
>   * Fun Times With Jabba’s Kid ("Mission to Jabba's Palace" Story Arc)  
>  <Shatterpoint> Sifo-Dyas makes a convincing case for the Confederacy.
> 

> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * Battle of Sundari  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn’t  
>  _< Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis Dies Here_
>   * Separatist Movements abruptly change
>   * _The Departure of the Sith_
>   * _Dooku kills the entire Separatist (Leadership) Council_
>   * _Ventress is laid off, is pretty okay with this_
>   * Ahsoka’s Trial / Leaving The Order  
>  Tholme tells Obi-Wan to keep his lineage in check because shit’s getting real
>   * Obi-wan Negotiates General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatist  
>  <Shatterpoint> (obviously this never happened in Canon, but it basically replaces all of Anakin’s bad decisions post Ahsoka so we’ll call it a shatterpoint)
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin take a vacation to Yavin 4
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at Phindar Spacestation and are found by Ahsoka
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at an unnamed spacestation on the Perlemian Trade Route and buy a bus
> 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep until the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
> 



	10. In Which Time, But More Importantly Anakin, Waits for No Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan phones home, the authors have trouble focusing, and Anakin has always been terrible at waiting.
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: "Safe and Sound" by Capital Cities

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Present Day): Senator Amidala’s Private Study

“Get through yet?” Anakin calls out from the doorway, one hand lingering on the frame as he steps through.

“Still some interference,” Obi-Wan sighs down at the borrowed desk. His cape slips forward (again) and he pushes it back with the same, absent motion he’s been turning into a habit since he acquired the damned thing several hours earlier.

Anakin slips around the desk with a shake of his head. “Just send a text.”

“I would _appreciate_ an update—”

“Here, let me.” Anakin leans over his shoulder before Obi-Wan finishes sighing to fiddle one-handedly with the settings. “You worry too much, Master.”

“I don’t worry _enough_ ,” Obi-Wan counters, brushing a hand over his beard as he watches Anakin flick through and swiftly tweak the outgoing call frequencies. “Didn’t you say you updated the communications systems before we left?”

It’s impossible to see from his current angle, but the soft huff Anakin answers with always accompanies an amused roll of his eyes. “Yeah, which you didn’t account for when you tried to call out — there.” He straightens up again with a triumphant grin and a grand gesture to the outgoing call screen.

Obi-Wan tries not to let too much love-affection-awe slip into the bond, but with the two of them still so tightly wound up in each other, it’s almost impossible not to. Anakin is still so _radiant_ in the Force — and, if the creeping blush is any indication, clearly catching some of the imagery in spite of his attempts to reign himself in. Well. Far be it from him to disappoint.

A soft sound of surprise catches in the back of Anakin’s throat when their lips meet. It’s only for a second, but the startled blink and flash of pleased surprise that streaks across the bond are worth the effort. Then surprise melts into soft amusement-affection-love and Anakin lets the hand at the small of his back pull them flush, parting his lips to draw them into something deeper with a teasing flick of his tongue.

The need to breathe eventually parts them, though not by much. Obi-Wan laughs softly at the spark of petulant humor that skirts the bond when he presses their foreheads together instead of continuing. “Later,” he breathes, pressing warmth-love-desire between them even as he pulls away.

“Rude,” Anakin huffs, folding his arms as his Force signature flares hot and brilliant and demanding against his own.

“Only if we continue.” The cape slips forward again, and Obi-Wan instinctively reaches up to adjust it back. “ _I_ have had to refrain since the Temple. _You_ should be able to make it through dinner.”

Anakin, maturely, sticks his tongue out.

“I assume there’s a _reason_ you called.”

They turn in sync to the disgruntled figure of A'Sharad Hett glaring up at them from just above the commlink on the desk.

“Master Hett—”

“Krayt!” Anakin chimes in, instantly distracted by the unexpected company. “What’re you doing on comm duty?”

“I’m not.” A’Sharad flicks an intense gaze between them — it’s difficult to tell from the blue of the holocall, but to Obi-Wan his eyes don’t seem _quite_ so bright as when they left — and ultimately settles on Anakin, shifting back to cross his arms as he answers. “What happened?”

“Nothing bad—”

“We found a Sith Shrine under the Temple!”

Obi-Wan exhales, but can’t even bring himself to feel exasperated when Anakin is so openly enthusiastic. Best to just step aside as Anakin leans down to face his friend directly, eagerly going over the — admittedly lacking — details as much as he can. Hett, of course, takes the whirlwind of information with the same constant frown as always, no matter the spark of interest clearly present in the intensity of his focus on the conversation.

“… You’re staying for a while, then?” he eventually concludes, only then glancing to Obi-Wan and back again.

“Yep!”

“Looks like,” Obi-Wan somewhat wryly confirms, prodding at Anakin both in the bond and at his side to allow him access to the controls again. He receives an easy swat in return, but Anakin nevertheless relinquishes his spot in front of the comm device. “I was hoping to speak with Cody, but since you’re here—”

“The kids ‘re fine.” A’Sharad’s words are flat, but his lips twitch with a hint of humor. “I can _handle_ a few unruly padawans, Kenobi.”

“Told ya’,” Anakin unhelpfully adds with a playful shove of his shoulder. It, of course, dislodges the cape _again_ and Obi-Wan just barely resists the urge to rip it off entirely.

“Yes, well, far be it from me to question your abilities,” Obi-Wan says to Hett, with a huff that’s clearly for the man at his side instead. Anakin just rolls his eyes and immediately starts to fiddle with the shoulder clasp failing to keep the slippery fabric under control.

“The Commander should be back any time now,” Hett, thankfully, transitions for them all, “but about this shrine…” Anakin sends Obi-Wan an amused glance, which he refrains from returning where A’Sharad can see. “Given the age of the Temple, it may be something XoXaan can shed some light on.”

Anakin gives a derisive snort. “As if she has any Light to shed—”

“ _Anakin_.”

Obi-Wan receives a baleful look for his defense of the Sith Lord, which is, well, _fair_ he supposes. He hadn’t meant it quite like that, but if it’s all the same, he’d _also_ prefer if Hett wasn’t left to deal with the dark spirit _alone_ while they’re on _Coruscant_. Anakin seems to catch his thoughts the exact moment A’Sharad’s dry chuckle sounds from the holocomm.

“I’ll give you a couple of days,” is all he says, straightening when something off-screen catches his attention. “Looks like the Commander’s back.”

“May the Force be with you, Hett,” Obi-Wan answers while Anakin waves his goodbyes.

### 18 BBY, 4th Month, Phindar Spaceport

In Obi-Wan’s defense, he _has_ seen Anakin around spare parts before. The man had, in fact, spent a good deal of his padawan years repairing, upgrading, and tearing apart pretty much anything he could get his hands on. The practice hadn’t exactly stopped the moment the braid was cut. He hadn’t said much then and he knows it’s far too late to say anything now.

So when Anakin pulls three things into the air immediately upon entering the shop, Obi-Wan knows to make himself scarce. The owner scuttles out in a flurry of whatever counts as the local dialect, Rex awkwardly attempts to calm the Phindian with no real understanding of what’s being said, and Anakin makes a gesture to the floating pieces as if it’s anything close to loading up a hovercart. It’s… surprisingly difficult for Obi-Wan to suppress his laughter.

He should probably pull the pieces down. It’s an improper use of the Force, it’s scaring the poor shop owner, and it’s putting Rex on high alert. He doesn’t do anything, of course, aside from slipping away to observe the chaos with a hand over his beard. Has Anakin done this before? The captain’s tense attempts to smooth things over and keep an eye on things certainly suggests an interesting history.

“Um, please excuse me… Sir?”

Obi-Wan blinks his attention free of Anakin’s impassioned bargaining to glance in the direction of the soft inquiry. There, just to his right — unannounced in the Force, but thankfully without any sense of danger either — stands a human woman at shoulder height in a set of drab but well-kept clothes he can’t quite place. “Yes? Is there something I can help you with?”

She wrings her hands, but her smile is relieved. “I, ah, think so, yes.” Uncertainty-desperation-hope thrums strongly in the Force between them. “You are — that is, the port manager said you’re General Kenobi, right?”

There’s the warning. It’s faint, though: more like anticipation than immediate threat. The bond flicks with curiosity, but it’s absent and easy to tell Anakin’s attention is elsewhere. A simple reminder that he’s here and the quiet way the Force is holding its breath has been noticed. As usual as of late, however, Anakin seems largely unconcerned.

Obi-Wan tilts his head in an open show of his own curiosity. “I am.” And then, because there’s no reason not to be polite, he drops his hands and offers a slight bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss…?”

Her weight shifts back onto her heels, pleased surprise overtaking the rest of the emotions radiating from her. Hope returns first, fiercely, and she visibly straightens before answering, “Telun. Telun Synsar.”

“Miss Synsar, then?” She nods, fear and hope warring in the Force as he casts around for the possible source of her nervousness. “What can I do for you?”

Whatever straightened her spine before throws her shoulders back and her chin up before she answers. “You can save my son.”

* * *

Anakin looks amused.

Obi-Wan would feel better about this if he didn’t know it was at his own expense.

“… What’s the problem, exactly?” Rex hesitantly breaks the silence, glancing between the two before returning his gaze to the small family standing a few feet back from the ship.

“He’s—” Obi-Wan catches himself and crosses his arms with a subtle gesture towards the second of three children, currently clenching his father’s hand like a lifeline. “The boy, Caje, is Force sensitive.”

“… And?” Rex prompts again, several seconds after it becomes clear Obi-Wan doesn’t intend to elaborate.

“ _And_ ,” Anakin jumps in with a telling smirk, “he’s _too old_.”

Rex turns a bit to look at the group again. The father is a little worn, but a stocky, strong man that can’t be older than his late thirties. The woman, Telun, looks a bit younger, not quite as sun-beaten, but certainly nowhere near “old”. Their children, of course — three boys — hardly qualify for the descriptor either. The eldest looks like he could be 16 at _most_ , given the Captain’s general understanding of how aging _usually_ works at least. Caje can’t be— “Too old for _what?_ The kid can’t be more than, what, 12?”

Obi-Wan exhales tightly. Anakin just looks more _amused_ and Rex starts to shift uncomfortably from the telltale grin.

“Too old for the Order,” is all Anakin says, however, with a significant look in Obi-Wan’s direction.

“I don’t like where this is headed,” Obi-Wan immediately announces.

Anakin arches an eyebrow, but says nothing.

“ _You_ were an exception,” Obi-Wan hisses out, trying to keep his voice low. “One I had to _beg and plead_ to make happen.”

“You were going to teach me regardless of what the Council said,” Anakin points out, with the same amused smugness he’s had since the moment the family arrived at the loading pad.

Obi-Wan makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and hides the rest of his reaction behind a brush of his hand over his beard.

Rex is pretty sure he’s missing a good half of this conversation, but figures it’s worth pointing out the obvious just to keep everyone on track. “So you can’t send him to the Order, because they won’t take him.” Obi-Wan sighs, but nods, gaze hovering on Anakin before sliding askance to the family once more. “But you want to do _something_ because…?”

“Because he can’t handle it,” Anakin supplies with an easy gesture towards the boy.

“Apparently, it’s bad enough that they sold everything that couldn’t bring along from Kijimi to get them to, well, us,” Obi-Wan relays in a voice that sounds both calm and infinitely uncomfortable.

“I don’t know why you’re making a big deal about this, Master,” Anakin says with an openly fond smirk. “We both know you’re not going to turn them away.” His gaze flicks pointedly from the family to Rex and back again.

The Captain clears his throat. “Five more mouths isn’t that big of a deal.” It doesn’t come off as casually as his General typically does, but Anakin looks satisfied regardless.

“The moment we start taking in Force sensitives in lieu of the Order—”

“All due respect, Sir,” Rex cuts in before Obi-Wan can get very far in his concerns, “we’re not in the Republic anymore. Could they _ever_ go to the Order?”

“Exactly!” Anakin brightly concludes, making Rex instinctively straighten under his approving grin.

Obi-Wan slides his hand up from his beard over the rest of his face for a moment. Then, suddenly, the tension seems to ease out of the air entirely and he exhales, dropping his hand with a nod. “If nothing else, we can’t leave them here.”

Anakin gives a decisive nod — as if an entire battle plan has been decided instead of the next couple of hours — and claps Obi-Wan on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Master, _this_ time, you’ve got some help,” he announces with a wink.

“… Anakin, I’ve _seen you_ with a padawan.”

“Master! How can you — Snips is the _best_!”

“I’ll get the ship prepped, then,” Rex says, making a quick exit.

### 18 BBY, 7th Month, Unnamed Spaceport, Pabol Hutta Hyperspace Lane

“You did _what_?” Obi-Wan’s voice is every bit what Anakin expected, and is therefore subsequently ignored.

“Well I couldn’t just _leave them_ ,” he argues with a plaintive brush of trust-hope-desperation along the bond. The last part slips through, but can he really be blamed when a small hand tugs on his own, and a pair of wide eyes stare fearfully up at him? He turns then, crouching down to as close to eye level with the togruta youngling as he can manage and summons a confident smile for her sake.

Force, she could be Ahsoka’s sister.

“Don’t worry,” he soothes in Huttese, careful not to let go of the hand that reached for him, but also keep the rest of himself from looming too close, “he’s a good man. He’ll help.”

She frowns, but tightens her hold on his fingers. “Called him ‘Master’.” It’s a garbled mess of Huttese and Basic, but she gets the point across. Because of course _that_ is the one word she knows in Basic.

Anger sears through him again, white-hot and murderous, but the earnest hope-fear-trust emanating from the youngling sharply curbs his thoughts to the present long before he can feel the hand on his shoulder. Anakin unclenches his jaw — thankful at least that she didn’t seem to have noticed the shift from a real smile — and tucks his jumbled emotions-intent into the bond instead. Obi-Wan can handle it.

“It’s not the same,” he tries to explain, opening the hand she’s holding and trying to keep his presence soft and welcoming in the Force in spite of every instinct that tells him to go back and handle the situation _directly_. “We’re Jedi.” He can feel the vague alarm-concern-hesitation wash through the bond from the one word Obi-Wan obviously caught, but lets it slip into the Force rather than deal with it. It’s just a bunch of semantics at this point anyway. “We’re partners.”

Her face screws up in confusion. “Partner?”

Anakin wracks his brain, sending another fluttering anxiety through the bond, and tries the simplest explanation he can think of. “We share tasks.”

It does the trick. Her wide eyes soften and she turns to the man he’s only just noticed crouched down beside him at some point. Obi-Wan gives a gentle smile — because of course he does — and exudes an easy sense of placidity-certainty-warmth as he introduces himself. Anakin isn’t sure some of the effort isn’t for himself, but at this point he really doesn’t care either.

“He says his name is Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he translates for the youngling, “and he wants to know what to call you.”

The togruta nods to him and turns back to Obi-Wan, using the hand not firmly connected to Anakin to lay over her chest. “Ledaa.”

Obi-Wan gives a thoughtful rendition of the name — perfect on the first try, of course — and the feeling of comfort grows with his answer. Ledaa, of course, looks uncertainly in his direction for the translation. Anakin gives the older man a broad grin before saying, “He wants to share your tasks.”

She starts, turning a wide-eyed blink on Obi-Wan directly, but he manages to keep the projected emotions steady in spite of the concern-alarm flaring from his end of the bond. “Why?”

This time, it’s not anger that lingers, but pain, and Anakin gives a quiet laugh because this, at least, he’s pretty good at handling. “Because I asked.” Obi-Wan’s end of the bond turns curious-concerned-caring. “I need to talk with him about it, though, okay?”

Ledaa doesn’t stop watching the new stranger who wants to share her tasks with anything less than open awe, but manages to nod her answer.

“… Anakin.”

“You can stand up,” he dryly announces while pushing back up to his feet. “She’s just a little starstruck.”

“ _Anakin_.”

“I mean, can you blame her?”

Obi-Wan sighs as he straightens himself out and turns back to his companion — still maintaining space for the small togruta between them. “What did you _tell her_?”

“That we’d help.” He crosses his arms and arches a pointed eyebrow.

“I know I heard you mention ‘Jedi’.”

“She’s _six_.”

“Anakin, you can’t just—”

“Well, I did.” Stubbornness settles over him at the first hint of pushback and Obi-Wan shifts backward with a brush of his beard in a clear attempt to table his concerns until they drift carefully into the Force seconds later. “And we _are_ going to help, so…”

Obi-Wan glances down and a rush of triumph shunts all the previous rage-anxiety-fear into the Force: Anakin knows he’s won. Nevertheless, his master concedes with a quiet, “You know I will if I can.”

Pay no attention to the half-completed supply trip and the few wandering troopers they’ll have to track down before they leave. Anakin is pretty sure that’s not _really_ going to matter. The men have always been good at dragging them out of firefights. A vague sense of alarm returns to the bond before Anakin remembers to curb that last thought.

Oops? He gives a sheepish shrug.

“… Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Obi-Wan sighs, glancing around now that he feels the need to actually be on alert. “When you say ‘rescued’ I take it you mean ‘beat up and absconded with Ledaa’ here?”

He tries not to wince. “I _did_ try to… you know,” he admits with the specific twist of his hand Obi-Wan has always used when planting suggestions.

Obi-Wan’s expression tightens. “So you knocked them out.”

“Maybe?” Anakin offers an unconcerned shrug. “They were pretty out of it, but I might have told them they were better off dead?”

“ _What_?”

“It’s not like he actually died from the _suggestion_ —”

“Anakin, the mind trick —”

“— ‘is not a cudgel’, I know, I know, but he was slimy and awful and his entire ‘entourage’ was twi’lek and togruta and he kept trying to get me to make an offer on Ledaa because _obviously_ —”

“ _Obviously_.”

“— and honestly we all know he’s lucky he’s not _actually_ dead, so really, I clearly made the best decision at the time.”

Obi-Wan watches him for another, long moment, drops his gaze briefly to Ledaa, and sighs. Concern-hesitation floods the bond before he simply says, “And the chip?”

Anakin grins and straightens, throwing his shoulders back triumphantly. “I’m handling it.”

“… Handling it,” Obi-Wan skeptically repeats, glancing between Anakin and Ledaa, with a soft expression for the latter. “And how, precisely, are you handling a chip that could possibly _explode_ at any moment?”

“Like a grenade,” Anakin proudly explains with a confident squeeze of the small hand still latched to his fingers. He can feel a slide of curiosity-skepticism pass between them and easily redirects Obi-Wan’s attention through the Force to the small device tucked into the base of Ledaa’s throat currently being held together by sheer stubbornness.

Obi-Wan blinks, shuffling surprise-awe-alarm rapidly along the bond, and retracting his attention. “… I don’t know why I’m surprised,” he eventually mutters. Then, his hand goes to the commlink at his waist. “Still, the safe thing would be to have it removed as soon as possible —”

“I knew you’d agree!” Anakin just barely manages to curb the instinctive, affectionate ‘Master’ from the end of his cheery remark and promptly attaches Ledaa’s hand to Obi-Wan’s outer robes with an encouraging pat. “Stay with Obi-Wan, okay? I’m going to get the rest.”

“Anakin, what—?”

Ledaa gives a wide eyed nod and adds her other hand to the loose cloth.

Anakin is already two steps back as the small image of Cody flickers into being over the commlink. “I’ll meet you at the ship!”

“Why can’t you—?” Obi-Wan starts to call after.

“… Sir?” says holo-Cody.

“I have to pick up the rest—” Anakin throws over his shoulder, attention already on his new task.

“ _The rest_?” Shock-surprise-trepidation.

“— and make sure that sleemo’s still out.” The image-impression of a dozen or so barely clothed aliens skips across the bond and by the time Obi-Wan processes any of it, Anakin has vanished into the Spaceport crowds.

Exhale troubles.

“… I’ll get the ship prepped,” Cody says after a beat of silence.

“That’s… probably for the best.”

Ledaa tugs on the cloth in her hands and reaches upward with an eager, “Obi-Pateesa!”

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Present Day): Senator Amidala’s Second Residence

The cape is the first thing to go. Obi-Wan deposits it with far more satisfaction than is entirely warranted on a low chair in the bedroom and moves on to the rest of his outfit with a speed that would likely insult the woman who oversaw its purchase. Thankfully, safely ensconced in a private residence at the edge of the governmental districts, neither of them has to concern themselves with possibly offending someone.

“Get naked any faster, and someone might get the wrong idea,” Anakin teases from across the room, unfurling affection-cheer-interest into the bond as he slips out of the fresher.

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows and pointedly unclasps his belt. “What makes you think it’s the wrong idea?” The bond thrums with quiet interest, but he doesn’t add much more than a faint smirk.

Anakin arches an eyebrow back and makes a short gesture with his fingers. Obi-Wan’s belt jerks out of his grasp and on to a nearby set of drawers. Obi-Wan, of course, just levels an expression too amused to be baleful upon him and promptly ignores the action in favor of pulling his shirt off.

“You know, it’s moments like this when I’m genuinely amazed we made it through an entire Council session without you pinning me to a wall.”

“If you’re making requests for tomorr—”

“Anakin, _no_.”

“You’re no fun, Master.” An easy laugh softens the words and soon Anakin’s shirt joins his own on the dresser. “And anyway, _you_ were the one stealing kisses in a side room.”

Amusement flutters along the bond, but it’s tinged with something warmer, almost heated at the edges. “Your own fault.”

“Oh?” Anakin hums, turning purposefully to rake a hand back through his hair at just the right angle to play up the tension and flexion of each muscle involved. “See something you like?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Obi-Wan sighs, but the smile won’t leave his lips any easier than his eyes can leave the obvious display. The corona of fiery light that burst out in the depths of the Jedi Temple has long since receded to a heated spark more felt than seen, but here, in the low light of a curtained bedroom, the warm blond of Anakin’s hair more than makes up for the loss.

“But _right_ ,” Anakin adds with a wink.

Obi-Wan shakes his head and makes a small gesture with his hand. A small bottle flies out of a rucksack by the set of drawers. Anakin immediately snatches it out of the air with a reaction time so fast it could only be because he anticipated the movement. Obi-Wan blinks his confusion, his concern-curiosity-desire slipping unhindered into the bond.

“Do you _not_ —”

“Check the nightstand.”

“What?”

Anakin rolls his eyes and strides over to the nightstand, dropping his captured bottle into the rucksack on the way. The drawer slides out before he gets there, but he pulls the tube out by hand, grinning proudly. “Thank you, _Padmé_.”

Embarrassment slides hot over Obi-Wan’s skin. “Anakin, you _can’t_ be serious.”

“Master, _really_?” He turns to transfer the tube with an easy lob. Obi-Wan catches it deftly, no matter his rising levels of mortification. “Don’t you know how important hospitality is on Naboo?”

“I hardly think—”

“And anyway, it’s not like she didn’t keep this place properly stocked the entire time I kind of lived here.”

“Anakin, do you _want_ to have sex?”

“… Yes?”

“Then stop talking.”

Anakin’s mouth snaps shut, but the humor never really leaves his expression. Obi-Wan closes the distance before he has a chance to think through the rest, knowing if he doesn’t capture Anakin’s lips in a kiss _right then_ he’s never going to get the chance again. There are, of course, _other_ reasons — like the roll of desire-love-affection that’s been simmering in the back of his mind since the Council chambers — but he really doubts Anakin cares very much about that at all.

He is, of course, entirely right.

Anakin’s hands are in his hair the second their lips touch, fisting and pulling until they’re pressed up against each other in the familiar push and pull of desire. It’s easier now, when the rest of the world no longer matters, to remember every second that lit his nerves afire through the day. Years ago, the desire-love-interest would have flowed into the Force: an endless stream of carnal wishes to be placated and removed.

Now, he savors them a little at a time, tucking them away until it’s safe. Until there’s no more questions, no desperate emergencies, and no need to monitor their interactions. Until there’s no one left to please but each other. And really, if that involves putting off his own enjoyment until Anakin is frantic in his reciprocation, so much the better.

“Knew you — ah! Liked torturing me,” Anakin pants the second he has half a breath.

“It’s _hardly_ torture,” Obi-Wan murmurs against the sensitive skin of Anakin’s neck.

“Says you—”

For one, blissful moment there are only pleased tremors and quiet hitches of breath. Then Anakin’s hands are tugging again, slipping down to curl around his neck and drag the two of them on to the large bed. He follows, sliding his hands over taut muscles and curling them under the waist of Anakin’s pants. The tube of lube drops to the bed, momentarily forgotten in the rush to divest the last remaining clothing between them.

Anakin gives a satisfied groan when he slips free, half hard already and arching instinctively against the sudden lack of friction. Obi-Wan quickly shifts his hold to now squirming hips, holding them steady enough to pry the snug pants the rest of the way off. It does little to help, but draws a frustrated whine and — he’s pretty sure — a rough tug with the Force that helps kick the last of the clothes away.

“Excessive,” Obi-Wan admonishes with a shake of his head.

Anakin’s disbelieving huff is more hitched breath and prurient moan than capable of delivering any real response. “As if you can - ah! _Master_!”

Pleasure-arousal flashes sharp and bright through the bond. Obi-Wan allows himself a smug smirk and gives another, short stroke of the heated flesh in his hold. Anakin makes a strangled noise, hips instinctively following the motion at the same moment he twists to make a grab for Obi-Wan’s waist. He lands somewhere around the man’s knee instead, clearly decides that’s close enough and hooks his hand under to drag his target closer.

“Did you want something?” Obi-Wan teases, voice dipping into that pleasant, low purr that always sends a pleased shiver straight down Anakin’s spine.

Anakin glares heatedly up at his companion, pushing up to his elbow in the process. “Planning on joining me?”

Amusement lights up the bond, but instead of answering, Obi-Wan leans down and slides his previously occupied hand around the curve of Anakin’s hip, tugging with an affectionate curl of decidedly non-manual pressure at the small of his back. < Hypocrite >, whispers through the bond, even as Anakin arches with the encouragement. It still draws them close enough to scrabble at Obi-Wan’s pants again, though, which is fortunate, because much longer and the slippery fabric would have been far more forcibly removed.

“Entirely uncalled for,” Obi-Wan huffs of the thought, hot breath puffing just beneath the cusp of an ear even as he adjusts to the urgent tugs.

Anakin grins, fumbling only another moment before resorting to the same short tug of the Force to drag the offending cloth off his master. It flies unceremoniously into the room, and lands crookedly on a decorative statue. Obi-Wan’s affront just spawns another low chuckle and Anakin twists to catch his mouth again in an aggressive drive for something more.

More of the talented tongue parting eager lips and pressing back against his own. More of the heated slide of flesh against flesh and the delicious pressure of Obi-Wan pushing him back on to the mattress. More of the roaming hands that drift over trembling muscle, roll anticipation into hardening nipples and press commandingly into sensitive spots with the confidence of someone who knows _exactly_ the sort of reaction he’s going to get. More of everything still being held _just_ out of reach.

He doesn’t know how long Obi-Wan spends slowly breaking him apart and giving him nothing in return, but Anakin has never been good at waiting, so somewhere between one needy whine and the next gasp of breath, he drops an arm and hooks a leg over Obi-Wan’s hips. If the man was really paying attention, he probably couldn’t get rolled so easily, but the sharp gasp when their hips collide proves his distraction. Smug triumph rolls down the bond as Anakin settles his knees to either side of Obi-Wan’s waist and summons the forgotten lube back to his hand with a quick, casual gesture.

“I take it you have _plans_ ,” Obi-Wan dryly, if a bit breathlessly, comments from below.

“I thought you were ready since the _Temple_ , Master,” Anakin tries to mutter, but it sounds far more like a whine to Obi-Wan. The pout isn’t helping. He opens the tube and squeezes the thick lubricant onto his flesh hand, rubbing his fingers together to warm it as a flush of images pass rapidly between them. Other nights, other days, other places and heated touches, whispered pleas, unwinding pleasures.

Obi-Wan groans, skin flushing and hips giving an abbreviated lurch he just barely catches before it grants either of them the friction they want. “That is… _hardly_ the point,” he breathes, struggling to push himself up into more of a sitting position just in time to catch the tube in his free hand.

“We can take our time _later_.” Anakin, true to his word, sets his mechanical hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and arches his back just enough to slip two slick fingers into himself.

“ _Anakin_ —” It comes out shaky and slightly disbelieving.

“Want you,” Anakin groans, hot and trembling around fingers he can only just make work at the awkward angle. Obi-Wan is tense in his hold, concern and lust spiraling unimpeded into the rush of want-desire-trust tumbling between them.

“That is hardly—”

“Then _do something about it_ ,” Anakin moans, rocking back against the twisting, scissoring pressure of his own fingers working him open.

Obi-Wan makes a noise in the back of his throat that could be a swear and could be desperation, and swiftly squeezes some of the lube on to his own hand. “Come here.”

The curt demand lances heat down Anakin’s spine and he moves immediately, pulling out and shakily drawing himself up to his knees. There’s a hand at the back of his thigh suddenly, straightening him up the rest of the way until — _oh_. A deep moan escapes as his erection slips past reddened lips and is immediately enveloped to the root in moist heat. The prickly brush of Obi-Wan’s beard barely even registers beyond a pleasant, familiar accent to the hot press of a talented tongue along his length.

Just as his hands scrabble into Obi-Wan’s hair, fisting and tugging and pleading, another pair of fingers slide back into him. His tugs sharpen, half hasty warning from the way his hips rock forward and half pure, overwhelmed reaction. He almost misses the sweet slide as his master draws back along his length, so distracted by the persistent _push_ and careful twist of that pair of fingers working their way deeper than he could on his own.

“Yessss… Ah, Master — that —” A moan breaks apart the incoherent words, and a sharp gasp follows the all-too-slight brush over his prostate that jerks his hips forward again. Obi-Wan sucks and draws back, dragging a deep keen of pleasure out before Anakin can force any of it into words again and by the time he can think again he’s gasping for lost breath.

A third finger joins the other two and Anakin gives up on anything aside from desperate bursts of “Master!” and “Now— now, in me _now_ ,” accompanied by urgent tugs and the confused jerk of his hips that can’t decide if he needs to press forward into heat and pleasure, or back into slick pressure and the possibility of far more. He shifts his grip, wrapping around behind Obi-Wan’s head — and gives a frustrated whine when the man pulls away entirely.

“ _Master_ —!”

“ _Now_ , Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s hand at his waist tightens, holding him still while the fingers so expertly opening him up slip out completely.

It’s another, dizzying moment before the words actually register in Anakin’s lust-drenched psyche — time which Obi-Wan uses to resettle them on the mattress — but then Anakin catches up again and quickly drops his hands to Obi-Wan’s shoulders instead. He lowers himself quickly, caught with enviable patience by a hand on his tailbone adjusting the angle until he can feel the thick head at his entrance and draw it in with a heated groan and a practiced roll of his hips.

“ _Force_ , Anakin, you—”

“— feel so good, Master~”

Neither is entirely sure who moves first. If it’s the way Anakin bites his lip that rocks Obi-Wan’s hips up, or the needy buck of Anakin’s hips that ultimately pushes Obi-Wan just that little bit _deeper_. White-hot pleasure lances up his spine and through the bond regardless.

“That’s it — That’s — _fuck_ ,” Anakin gasps, knees slipping wider as he drops down and arches into the motion. It’s not enough. The ache clawing at the edges of pleasure is his reward for the desperate, sloppy, and too-quick preparation, but in the moment, it’s everything he wants. He leans in with a roll of his hips that drags a deep, rumbling groan from the man beneath him, and nips restlessly at an ear. “C’mon, Master~”

“ _Anakin_.” Strong hands slide over his hips and curl under, gathering a globe of flesh in each and pulling them apart as Obi-Wan lifts him up. The ache deepens so sharply, tears spring to his eyes. “ _Move_.”

He rocks back against the hold, spilling moans and breathy, sweet words into the curve of an ear. “Yesyes — perfect — perfect. Just like - ah~” He rolls forward, hissing through the drag of the thick length against sensitive inner walls and the not-enough-never-enough friction of his erection rubbing against taut stomach muscles. “Just—”

The hands on his ass clench, holding him in place as Obi-Wan arches up, in a sudden, deep drive. Pleasure rips from his throat in a hoarse cry and he falls back, rolling his hips down in a needy press for more of the same. Somewhere in the bond, the mirror of his own building passion swirls fiery and tempestuous, and somewhere in the present Obi-Wan is saying something and words are falling from his own lips, but as the pace quickens, his muscles strain, and it seems increasingly impossible to draw air into his lungs, it all blurs together.

They move together. They breathe together. They _feel_ together, and everything else falls away.

* * *

“… Maybe less bond, next time,” Obi-Wan groans some time later, putting a hand to his neck as he stretches in an attempt to work out the kinks.

“Mmm, maybe when you’re less stressed,” Anakin lazily doesn’t agree, not even bothering to open his eyes as he nuzzles closer, layering smug satiation all through the bond to make his point.

“I was _hardly_ —”

“You grilled Cody for _twenty minutes_ , agreed to let Bail send _spices_ and actually told Padmé we’d go to a political soir— sor— _thing_.”

There’s a beat of silence in which tired affection sinks into the bond and Obi-Wan shifts slightly to run a hand through Anakin’s hair. It earns him a soft sound of approval and further nuzzling. “I… may be a little _concerned_.”

“Mmhm. No meditation until morning.”

Obi-Wan huffs, but sends a light flutter of mirth to his companion and relaxes down into the mattress. Anakin raises a hand without looking and makes a loose gesture, plunging the room into darkness.

“I know you have a lot of faith in Hett, I just—”

“Master.”

Obi-Wan sighs and presses the thought-image of darkness-fear and a vaguely outlined holocron forward.

“Even if he can’t handle it, Snips can handle _him_.”

“All the same, I would prefer she have no need to.”

“And she _won’t_. I mean, you _saw_ his eyes. It’s fine. They’re fine.” Anakin’s Force signature warms as he relaxes against Obi-Wan, sinking his confidence, faith and exhaustion into the normally serene signature beside him. “Everyone’s _fine_. No one’s Falling.”

A flash of Sith shrine doors, Kolar’s expression, Mace’s frown and then… Anakin smiles softly as the images simmer into fiery light, warmth, love, and trust. Everything else? It slides into the Force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy May The Fourth!
> 
> Reference images for characters brought in from Legends:
> 
>   * [A'Sharad Hett](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/starwars/images/3/3b/A%27Sharad_Saleucami.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20150727011628)
>   * [XoXaan](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/starwars/images/1/1b/Xoxaan_Muur.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20190418215437) (Woman On The Left)
> 

> 
> Interesting tidbits from reading through some EU/Legends material: dismembering and/or failing to kill Sith Lords seems to be a _thing_ for Obi-Wan. Σ(･ิ¬･ิ)
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **32 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis doesn’t die!
>   * Sifo-Dyas travels to Oba Diah  
>  <Shatterpoint> Doesn’t die, ends up on Serenno with Dooku. It’s complicated.
> 

> 
> **22 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Sev’rance Tann doesn’t die!
>   * Fun Times With Jabba’s Kid ("Mission to Jabba's Palace" Story Arc)  
>  <Shatterpoint> Sifo-Dyas makes a convincing case for the Confederacy.
> 

> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis Dies Here
>   * Battle of Sundari  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn’t 
>   * Separatist Movements abruptly change
>   * The Departure of the Sith
>   * Dooku kills the entire Separatist (Leadership) Council
>   * Ventress is laid off, is pretty okay with this
>   * Ahsoka’s Trial / Leaving The Order  
>  Tholme tells Obi-Wan to keep his lineage in check because shit’s getting real
>   * Obi-wan Negotiates General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatist  
>  <Shatterpoint> (obviously this never happened in Canon, but it basically replaces all of Anakin’s bad decisions post Ahsoka so we’ll call it a shatterpoint)
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin take a vacation to Yavin 4
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at Phindar Spacestation and are found by Ahsoka
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at an unnamed spacestation on the Perlemian Trade Route and buy a bus
> 

> 
> _  
> **18 BBY**  
>  _
> 
> __
>   * _Obi-Wan and Anakin adopt a family from Kijimi  
>  _ _Gain First Post-Order Padawan_
> _
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin rescue some slaves from Hutt space
> _ 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep until the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
> 



	11. In Which Obi-Wan Is Harassed By His Force Grandpa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Disaster Lineage plows on, Dooku doesn't approve, nothing is going like Palpatine expects, and that’s probably for the best.
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: "Bad" by Michael Jackson

### 18 BBY, 1st Month, 1st Day of Negotiations: Castle Serreno

He probably should have known something was going on the moment they landed on the same private landing pad at the great Castle of Serenno. More-so when the exact same person ushered them swiftly through the same grand entrance and on to their accommodations. The same room, down the same hallway, in the same wing, with the same view of the ocean thousands of feet below a balcony Obi-Wan could swear was attached solely for the purpose of luring people to their deaths.

“Well, this place hasn’t changed,” Anakin grouses as he stalks into the cold evening air. He tosses a small bag as Obi-Wan turns to meet him, knowing it will be caught long before it can disappear into the night. Not that he’d care. “Even the surveillance devices are in the exact same spots.”

Obi-Wan straightens as he opens the bag, eyeing the contents without really cataloguing most of it. “I assume you checked for more?”

“The whole place, multiple times,” Anakin confirms on a huff. He drops his arms to the top of the rail, and leans uncaringly over the edge. “It’s like he’s not even trying.”

“It _is_ a little disconcerting,” Obi-Wan sighs, a steady creep of caution-curiosity-concern sliding into the bond before he can expel it into the Force. “I can’t quite decide if he’s trying to lure us into a false sense of security or just keep us out of the rest of the estate.”

Anakin shrugs. “Does it matter?”

Obi-Wan exhales quietly and tucks the bag into his robes. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

* * *

“So, ‘General Kenobi’ is it, this time?” The cordial remark is delivered in lieu of an actual greeting.

“ _High_ General,” Anakin snaps, arms crossed and about as far from ready to sit and discuss the details of peace as ever.

“Oh?” Dooku raises his eyebrows and reclines minutely in his chair. “I was under the impression that title was reserved for members of the Jedi High Council.”

“Should we get this out of the way, then?” Obi-Wan cooly suggests before the sharp spike of anger on Anakin’s side of the bond can drill any farther through his own mental wards. He receives a brush of apology, at least, even if the man remains hovering broodingly at the corner of his chair rather than taking a seat for himself.

The count gives a small, dismissive wave. If the murderous anger is actually making it anywhere past their bond, Dooku seems disinclined to acknowledge it. “We’re all former Councilors here, are we not? There is no reason to be so… circumspect.”

Obi-Wan allows himself a dry smirk, mostly because it’s pretty much the opposite of what he’s actually feeling at the moment. “Count — if that’s still correct—” he politely but pointedly mimics, “the Senate session was public, as were the contents of the bill. You know very well we no longer speak for the Jedi Order. Fortunately for us all, that’s not what we’re here to discuss.”

Dooku, if anything, looks amused. “Admittedly, I am mostly just surprised to find them so amenable to allowing Fallen Jedi to determine the fate of the Republic.”

“No one _Fell_!” Anakin snaps, predictably.

Dooku’s smirk deepens. “My dear _Skywalker_ ,” — the name sounds somehow patronizing the way he says it — “you’ve been three steps from the edge this _entire war_ and you expect me to believe—”

“This isn’t what we’re here to discuss,” Obi-Wan cuts in, reaching back to catch Anakin’s hand before he breaks the chair.

“Perhaps it should be?” Dooku pointedly transitions, dragging his gaze openly over the conjoined hands and then upward to watch Anakin’s reaction.

“We are _Representatives of the Republic_ —”

“ _You_ , perhaps,” the Count interrupts with a smug raise of his brow.

Dice tumble through the bond as Obi-Wan swiftly tangles Anakin’s fingers with his own. “I believe you’ll find my husband is _also_ listed on that decree, Count.”

Dooku’s expression sours with a decidedly ill-humored glance in Anakin’s direction. “… If you insist.”

Never one to let an ante go un-upped, Anakin slips around the side of Obi-Wan’s chair with a tug on their entwined hands and gives them a gentle brush of his lips that would be more gentlemanly if he weren’t glaring challengingly at their host the entire time. Then, he sprawls into the chair beside his _husband_ and says, “Now that we’ve cleared that up — you had a war to concede?”

He leaves the room shortly after.

Obi-Wan is pretty sure it’s for the best.

* * *

When Dooku insists on taking lunch together rather than actually pausing the negotiations, Obi-Wan is skeptical to say the least. Between Anakin’s irritable prickling from the other end of the bond and the fact that several hours have passed without establishing much beyond wanting to put an end to the conflict, he is more than willing to admit he could use the break. His discomfort is, unfortunately, also the most likely reason why Dooku is so against the idea.

Just once, Obi-Wan would like negotiations to be _pleasant_.

“Something bothers you,” Dooku imperiously declares — as he does most everything, it seems, because apparently it would kill him to ask a question — and makes a curling gesture with his hand. A dark bottle of _actual_ _glass_ rises out of the chill box at one of end of the conference table and tilts over Obi-Wan’s unfortunately empty wineglass.

It’s an obscene misuse of the Force. For a Jedi. Obi-Wan wants to think they haven’t changed so much as to fall to Dooku’s level, but he knows very well that Anakin would do the same thing, given half a second and any reason at all. So he manages to reign in the sigh and the look of suspicion and simply wait out the ridiculous gesture until he can retrieve his glass again and raise it politely in thanks.

At least the wine is good.

Dooku, for some reason, just looks amused and returns the bottle with another flick of his hand. “Not about the Treaty, I think.” He reclines slightly to his left and continues as if musing quietly to himself. “Not specifically about having to establish it, anyway. Your presence here, perhaps.”

“Lunch, mostly,” Obi-Wan blandly answers, allowing himself to enjoy the droll expression he’s given in response. With most anyone else, there’d be more. A sarcastic comment, a redirection — _something_. But this isn’t a duel, and it’s not merely his life he’s juggling… and he knows very well how much his reticence gets to Dooku more than his words.

“Kenobi, this is _beneath_ you,” the Count sighs, making a gesture for a nearby droid to remove their plates.

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows, but leans back to let the droids work. “I don’t know what _you’ve_ been up to as of late, but us mere mortals _do_ still require food—”

“You’re protecting him,” Dooku says.

“Of course I am.” The blunt words are unexpected, though Obi-Wan doubts very much many would have noticed with how controlled Dooku stays in his surprise. “What of it?”

Dooku, at least, recovers his grace with remarkable speed. “And you believe the _Senate_ will do any better by him than the _Council_?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with the Treaty Negotiations.”

“Please,” Dooku huffs with a short wave of his hand, “what other reason could _possibly_ convince you into such a farce?”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrow ticks up sharply. “Farce?”

“I suppose you think the marriage will be enough protection?” The way he says it — confident, casually condescending, and with a slight forward lean as if listening intently to a whispered secret — is a schism of reminders and reality.

In his mind’s eye, Obi-Wan can still see Qui-Gon mimicking the movement with diplomats and vagrants alike. Remembers the teachings that came with it. Can still hear the flippant commentary on how Obi-Wan’s muttered dislike for politicians may be something of a Lineage trait. Discomfort-regret-acceptance skips the bond and passes gently into the Force. The image-thought-sense of a hand on his shoulder drifts through the bond and vanishes shortly after.

Obi-Wan allows a dry quirk of his lips and settles back in his chair instead of meeting his opponent head on. “There is hardly anything… ‘farcical’ about _any_ part of our marriage.” He pushes humor into the words until he feels it and leans casually to one side.

Dooku finally seems to give his words some weight and pulls himself back to the strictly upright position he’d carried throughout the entirety of the morning discussions. “… As you say.”

### 18 BBY, 1st Month, 2nd Day of Negotiations: Carannia, Capital City of Serenno

“No, no, go _slower_ , he’ll get scared!”

“Don’t listen to him, Mr. Zim is _already_ scared because he’s so high up!”

Anakin gives up on his original plan with a sigh, and sets a hand atop the younger child clinging to him — a human boy tugging frantically on his cloak with tears in his eyes. “I can get him down, I just—”

“You’re such a crybaby, Dalo,” the girl on his right declares with a stomp of her foot as she removes her hands from his cloak to cross them instead. “If you hadn’t had a _fit_ , Mr. Zim would already be down!”

The boy, of course, bursts into tears.

Anakin hastily drops the hand he was using to focus on the small animal’s presence high up in the tree just over the city walls, and turns to crouch down next to Dalo. “Hey, hey, I said I’d get him down, didn’t I? You don’t—”

“ -‘m _not_ a crybaby!” Dalo wails.

“Then why are you _crying_ , idiot?”

“Ok, that’s _enough_ ,” Anakin snaps over his shoulder, startling the smug girl into uncertain silence. Between the wailing, high-pitched _needling_ and the uncomfortable twist of his bond every so often he’s come to associate with Obi-Wan’s discomfort over personal inquiries, it’s honestly a miracle he hasn’t accidentally killed the damn pet they want rescued so badly. “Look, buddy — Dalo — you want to help Mr. Zim, right?”

A sniffle momentarily interrupts the constant wail, but the little boy only manages to nod his answer.

“Well, lucky for you, I can help — _but_ I need to be able to focus, okay?”

“B-but—” Sniff. “He’s scared ’n what if something ha-happens—”

“Something’s only going to _happen_ if you keep blubbering—”

“ _Lazi_ ,” Anakin interrupts the girl with a short glare over his shoulder again.

“What? I’m not wrong!” She demands with another impertinent stomp of her foot. Anakin can’t help wondering if _everyone_ in Serenno raises their kids to imitate Dooku, or if he’s just that unlucky. “You could have gotten him down right now if Dalo wasn’t interrupting you every five seconds, couldn’t you?”

“That’s—” Anakin hesitates, glances back at Dalo who has decided burying his tear-streaked, snot-laden face into Anakin’s cloak is the best solution to his current predicament, and cringes. “… Well, obviously being _mean_ about it isn’t _helping_ ,” he mutters on a sigh and goes back to trying to figure out his current predicament. Lazi huffs, but seems content to let him deal with the small child using his cloak as a tissue.

He wishes, not for the first time, that he’d never left Obi-Wan’s side back in that stupid castle. He knows, logically, Obi-Wan is fine, and that he himself has dealt with far more dangerous situations on his own without his master’s input, but… Anakin ruffles Dalo’s hair and exhales softly, wondering how Obi-Wan would deal with this. His master is always so good with unruly children. It’s like just being around him calms them. Honestly, he can understand that part, at least: Obi-Wan’s Force signature is always a cool, steady presence that seems to simply inflict serenity upon you, given enough time.

Well, he might not be Obi-Wan, but maybe…

Anakin focuses a moment on the other end of his bond, his gaze turning distant as he curls right up against the part of him that his master now extends into. Obi-Wan presses back immediately, with that familiar, steady presence and absent inquiry. He can’t help the affectionate smile that forms as he nudges back about nothing and wraps himself in a soothing blanket of Obi-Wan’s presence in the Force.

By the time he opens eyes he doesn’t remember closing, Dalo’s wails have dimmed to sniffles, and Lazi is exasperatedly dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. Well, that’s better, at least. He grins to himself and pushes back to his feet, dusting himself off as he goes. “Much better. Now! I believe there’s a cat that needs savi—” The barest, half-hearted flicker of warning zips in from the Force half a second before four paws land, claws extended, half on his head and scrabbling against his shoulder.

“Mr. Zim!”

* * *

It takes him another hour to reach the castle gates again. In that time, he’s gathered enough small animals, giggling children, and overly-happy shop owners in his wake to make him never want to leave the brooding archways again. Is the Force some kind of weird _catnip_ for these people?

He’s still contemplating the flex-pull-simmer of the planet in the Force when a figure steps out of the shadow of the archway and into his path.

“General Skywalker.”

He stops, eyes narrowed and letting his cloak slip around his shoulders to shield the movement of his hands on instinct. “Word gets around quickly.”

“So, it seems, do you,” a clearly feminine voice answers from within the obscuring cowl. The Force slips around them both, lingering on him as is its wont before brushing around the woman as well. No warnings. No bleed of malice. “I don’t suppose I can pull you from your work for a moment?”

Anakin cracks a smirk and shifts his weight to one leg, fingering the hilt of his lightsaber under the secrecy of his cloak. Whomever this is, he can more than handle them, he’s sure. “Depends. Do I get to know who I’m talking to first?”

“You’ll forgive the… dramatic level of secrecy,” she answers, reaching a hand up to pull back the hood of her cloak to reveal a human woman of middling age, her short cropped brown hair already fading to the grey of her eyes, but without the lines of age and wear just yet. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had to resort to subterfuge in order to get to where I’m supposed to be. Senator Mina Bonteri of Onderon.”

Anakin’s eyebrows climb, but he manages to corral the rest of his surprise into the bond and the Force and everywhere that’s not his face. “A _Confederate_ Senator.”

The edge of her lips quirk up ever so faintly. “Are you not _in_ the Confederacy, General Skywalker?”

His expression slants curious even as he cautiously steps closer, senses spilling out in every direction as he watches for some sign of deception, or the slightest whisper of danger in the Force. “And aren’t _you_ supposed to be on Raxus, Senator?”

Mina’s expression tightens in that way Anakin’s more familiar with coming from Padmé when she’s thinking something she doesn’t want to say out loud. “Are you not here to discuss a Peace Treaty?”

“… In theory…”

“Then I am exactly where I need to be,” she declares with all the air of a woman used to fighting for what she wants — and winning. It’s almost eerie, the way she holds herself and the way she moves. To Anakin, it’s like watching a strange, older version of the woman he fell in love with what feels like a lifetime ago.

In the bond, a brush of concern spills over, likely from the strange spiral of familiarity and confusion and he banks it with more confidence than he entirely feels in the moment. Nothing new, really; he always seems to be playing catch-up when it comes to politics. Speaking of which….

Anakin glances up the stairs to the first true guard post beyond the open gate before him and suddenly, it clicks. He relaxes then, much to the Senator’s subtle, but clear confusion and gives a soft laugh. “You can’t get in, can you?”

Mina presses her lips together in a thin line that makes it difficult to tell which emotion she’s keeping at bay and says only, “The Count is not expecting me, no.”

“What makes you think I’m going to let you in?” It’s a forgone conclusion he’s going to, of course, but she doesn’t know that.

If anything, however, his words only make the Senator seem more sure of herself. She glides forward the remaining distance between them so she can speak more quietly, never letting her gaze leave his. “Because the last time I saw your padawan, she wanted peace, and the last time I spoke with Padmé, she told me I could trust you. Tell me, General; was she right?”

* * *

“… Senator Bonteri.”

“Count.”

A mixture of question marks and the sensation of repressed laughter wisps through the bond and is gone again with the quick glance Obi-Wan tosses him. Anakin offers a triumphant grin and draws Mina forward with a gentlemanly sweep of his arm. “Since you already know each other, allow me to introduce my husband, _High General_ Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Dooku stiffens where he stands, frowning openly at the pair, but Mina graciously follows Anakin’s lead and offers a formal bow of her head. “A pleasure to meet you —”

“Just Obi-Wan, is fine,” he demurs with an amused twitch of of his lips, and returns her bow. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Her eyebrows raise slightly. “Are we not engaged in negotiations?” She turns to Dooku, folding her hands before her in a prim, practiced motion. “As the Leadership Council is no longer capable of advising you on these matters, the Parliament has determined I would be best suited until another cabinet can be advised.”

Mirth skips through the bond as Dooku’s lips press together and something slips carefully into the Force. Anakin catches Obi-Wan’s eye and sees only amusement as the two branches of the Confederate Government face off between them. Determination, more than anything else, seems to vibrate from Mina’s sheer presence, no matter the underlying fear that leaks out. Then again, she’s staring down Dooku as a Force Blind reminder of the bureaucratic machine he so hated in his previous life. Anakin figures she’s more than owed her fear.

“I seem to recall informing you as to _why_ the Council was… dissolved,” Dooku says in a way that _feels_ like a threat, even if Anakin has no idea why. A short gesture from Obi-Wan and a tug in their bond softens the urge to step between them, however. It doesn’t help his curiosity, but then, most things don’t.

“You did,” is all the Senator says in response, gaze unwavering.

Anakin briefly wonders if this is what Ahsoka meant when she called him and Obi-Wan ‘weird’ and ‘unnerving’ the last time she had to remind them to speak _verbally_ to each other. It’s only been a minute at _most_ , neither Confederate has moved an inch, and he’s pretty sure there’s an _entire discussion_ he’s missing. Obi-Wan seems just as lost, if the steady press of interest is any indication.

Then Dooku’s lips quirk into the shadow of a smirk and he raises a hand just high enough to send a nearby staffer rushing over from the doorway. “Prepare a room for the Senator and forward our itinerary.”

“Your manners remain impeccable, Count Dooku,” Mina formally accepts with an appreciative nod.

“I look forward to your input,” is all Dooku says with a raise of his brows.

If Anakin didn’t know any better, he’d think the man was _impressed_.

### 18 BBY, 1st Month, Fourth Day of Negotiations: Castle Serenno, Count’s Private Wing

“I’m telling you, Master, he has a _harem_.”

“That seems rather out of character, don’t you think?” Obi-Wan sighs doubtfully, one hand brushing his beard in thought as they slip down the older, central hallways.

Anakin shrugs unconcernedly. “So does holding peace talks?”

“… Fair, although more likely than a… harem.” Obi-Wan’s expression twists with the word, unable to withhold his distaste and doubt. “He lived several decades within the Order —”

“Yeah, and then he went _Sith_.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “At an advanced age—”

“There’s pills for that—”

“Anakin that is _not_ what I meant.” Exasperation floods the bond as they turn a corner into a wider lobby. “Old habits are hard to break.”

“Yeah, well, supposedly the lightning trick is pretty hard too,” Anakin retorts with a wiggle of his fingers in vague demonstration. “Look, I know what I saw. He even kind of _looked_ like a Jedi.”

“What is that even supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying, maybe he’s not breaking as many habits as you think.”

“ _Anakin_.”

“Ah, there, look!” Anakin’s voice drops to a whisper and honestly, Obi-Wan isn’t entirely sure the words leave the man’s mouth in lieu of the thoughts in the bond. Nevertheless, he tucks himself closer into the archway they never quite passed, and follows Anakin’s gesture to peer out into the lobby.

At the other end of the room, a man strides through at angle that just misses an easy view of their location. He tries not to acknowledge Anakin’s smugness when his mind immediately flits back to memories of old masters walking the temple halls as a result. Yes, the man certainly _looks_ like a Jedi, but that, Obi-Wan quickly realizes the moment the man in question draws close enough to actually see his features, is because he _is_ a Jedi.

Or was.

Anakin shoots him a look of confusion and Obi-Wan ignores it in favor of striding incredulously into the lobby. “ _Master Sifo-Dyas_?”

The man pauses in the archway of another hall — one that, if Obi-Wan remembers right, leads directly towards the Count’s private wing — and turns partially back. Yes, now that Obi-Wan can see him directly, he’s even more sure of his conclusion. The hair is a little grayer, perhaps, but tied back in the same, half-up topknot, and his clothes are a little nicer than Temple standard, but ultimately still creamy tans and humble browns in the layers and style of the Jedi Order.

He looks mildly surprised to see them in that same, calm manner that every Master of a certain age seems to retain, and offers a polite bow. “Master… Kenobi, I assume?”

Anakin is half a step behind and apparently too focused on his discovery to be irritated over his exclusion from the greeting. “ _See_? I _told you_.”

Obi-Wan tries not to sigh. “Anakin. I don’t think that’s what’s going on here.” He turns his attention back to the man-who-should-be-dead and says, “You _are_ Master Sifo-Dyas, are you not?”

The question earns him a rather amused look from the Jedi Master. “I am Sifo-Dyas, and I have not died. I trust the Force agrees?”

It prompts Obi-Wan to finally return the formal bow, at least. “Apologies, although I’m sure you can understand the situation. To answer your previous question, however, yes, I am Obi-Wan Kenobi, and this is Anakin Skywalker.”

Anakin gives a small wave in greeting, keeping most of his attention on Obi-Wan and giving a confused tug in the bond.

Sifo-Dyas, however, frowns thoughtfully after the introductions. “… So you _have_ left.”

“Haven’t we all, at this point?” Anakin mutters before Obi-Wan can stop him.

“Not unless I was excommunicated at some point, no,” Sifo-Dyas announces with a blithe shrug of his shoulders. “Although I had hoped Dooku was exaggerating about the two of you.” He glances over their shoulders to the larger halls and the dimming light beyond, before turning back with another, formal bow, “If you’ll excuse me, I’d rather not be late for dinner.”

Obi-Wan returns the bow. “I won’t keep you, but if you are amenable, I would very much like to speak with you — at length, if you have the time.”

Amusement colors Sifo-Dyas’s expression and then slides into the Force. “I think we all know it’s not _me_ who needs to be amenable. Good Evening—”

“ _Would_ you be, however?” Obi-Wan presses in spite of the open confusion lingering in the bond.

“Of course.”

Anakin waits just long enough for Sifo-Dyas to drift out of earshot before stepping into Obi-Wan’s personal space and whispering a sharp, “ _See_?”

Obi-Wan just sighs. “All I have seen is a mystery, Anakin, and one I would very much like solved.”

“So a Councilor’s not _dead_. Not like _that_ hasn’t happened before.” All this time later and it’s still sharp, no matter how quickly Anakin bowls over the topic. “I mean _that_ —” Anakin just rolls his eyes and gestures pointedly to the hallway Sifo-Dyas used to leave. “ _Dooku’s private wing_.”

“Yes, I saw where he _went_ , Anakin.”

“Yeah, but the moment one of _us_ goes down that hallway, a bunch of lasers show up and droids pop out of the walls —”

“I’m not going to ask how you know this.”

“ — and some officer shows up to drag you out of the way. Look. My point is, he’s definitely _welcome_.”

“So he eats dinner with the Count; I can hardly hold taste against him without knowing the context.”

Anakin makes a frustrated noise and throws his hands up. “He barely ever leaves that wing. I’m _telling you_ it’s a _harem_.”

“… Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighs, though it’s more amused than he means it to be. “Even if they _are_ …” He makes a vague gesture. “I don’t think there _is_ anyone else. It’s just Master Sifo-Dyas.”

Sometimes Obi-Wan is reminded that Anakin spent part of his childhood on Tatooine. This is one of those times, as Anakin screws up his face and simply replies, “Well, _that’s_ not a very good harem.”

### 18 BBY, 1st Month: Castle Serenno, Diplomatic Envoy Accommodations

If Obi-Wan didn’t know any better, he’d think the Chancellor, for a moment, seems _pleased_ by this turn of events. It’s there and gone in a flicker of blue lines, however, and so he writes it off to encryption and signal strength. He’s frowning now, if politely, anyway.

“You want time to… investigate something?” The old man echoes skeptically back.

“Yes, Chancellor, Anakin—”

“Ah, you’ve found something have you, my boy?” Palpatine interrupts, perking up visibly as he turns to catch more of Anakin in the holocall. He holds his hand out, twisting it in an eager hithering motion. “Now come here, it’s not just your husband we sent over.”

The bond flushes warm with pride so quickly, Obi-Wan actually glances over at Anakin as he steps more clearly into the view of the camera. He’s exuding easy confidence, but within there’s a nervous sort of energy that brings to mind gangly youth and the dangle of a thin, beaded braid. Something about the dichotomy twists his stomach.

“I appreciate that, Chancellor, but it really has been Obi-Wan most of the time,” Anakin says, turning slightly to include Obi-Wan with an extended hand. “I only even found anything at all because I’ve been more or less exiled from the table.”

“Exiled?” Palpatine echoes with a some surprise, his hands gathering low in front of him as it slips to concern. “How do you mean?”

“The Count seems… particularly focused on our current… ‘predicament’,” Obi-Wan somewhat dryly explains.

Anakin offers an amused snort of commentary. “He can’t go more than an _hour_ without insisting we ‘embrace the Dark Side’,” he says, straightening with a prim gesture and adjusting his voice at the end for affect.

“… Particularly when Anakin is in the room,” Obi-Wan finishes on a sigh.

“… I see,” Palpatine says like a man who absolutely does not, but — after a glance in Anakin’s direction — settles back on his heels. “Ah, forgive this old man a moment, but — as Anakin may have told you — I am something of a collector and this does remind me of some old texts—”

“Perhaps another time, Chancellor?” Obi-Wan apologetically cuts in, uncertain exactly what is prompting the well of disquiet pushing the words from his mouth, but chalking it up to the ever-present possibility of disconnect or discovery. “I’m not sure how long this line is going to stay private and I am sure the Council can answer any questions you may have about the specifics of his offers.”

“It’s not like we’re going to _listen_ anyway,” Anakin dismisses with a wave of his hand.

“Well,” Palpatine sighs weightily, “perhaps we can speak of it when you’re finished, then. I am not certain I would feel entirely comfortable speaking with the Council about any of it after everything they put you through.”

“I wouldn’t —”

“Yeah, if you want,” Anakin immediate agrees with a curl of curiosity for the way Obi-Wan’s stomach bottoms out with the Chancellor’s words. “Anyway, it’s a good thing I don’t spend my time cooped up in negotiations anyway, because I found some really interesting people!”

This draws the first truly thoughtful look from the Chancellor since the call began. “People, you say?”

“A person, specifically,” Obi-Wan corrects, crossing his arms. “Someone I think could… add a good deal of perspective to these negotiations.”

“… _Oh_?” They’re thousands of light years away from Coruscant, and still the push of deep _interest_ that sinks into the Force makes it feel like they’re three feet from one of the most powerful men in the galaxy. His gaze flicks between them with an intensity Obi-Wan can hardly place and comes to rest, predictably, on Anakin once more. “Who?”

Anakin smirks. “His consort.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Actual Notes:
> 
> So we changed up the summary to better reflect the nature of this story and, in the spirit of “everything is beautiful and no one dies” we’ve resurrected [Mina Bonteri](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/starwars/images/2/25/MinaBonteriHS-HOBS.png/revision/latest?cb=20130518032005). 
> 
> Miracles happen when people are less overcome by bitterness and spite! (´∀｀)♡
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **32 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis doesn't die!
>   * <Shatterpoint> Sifo-Dyas is shot down over Oba Diah and ends up on Serenno.
> 

> 
> **22 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Sev'rance Tann doesn't die!
>   * <Shatterpoint> After The Team rescues Jabba's kid, Sifo-Dyas makes a convincing case for the Confederacy.
> 

> 
> **21 BBY**
> 
>   * _< Shatterpoint> Mina Bonteri is not killed by Dooku_
> 

> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis Dies Here
>   * <Shatterpoint> Battle of Sundari but with 100% more Anakin, Satine lives and Maul dies  
> 
>   * The Departure of the Sith
>   * Dooku kills the entire Separatist Leadership Council and lays off Ventress
>   * Ahsoka's Trial / Leaving The Order  
>  Tholme tells Obi-Wan to keep his lineage in check because shit's getting real
>   * Obi-wan Negotiates General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatist
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order and go to Yavin 4
>   * Ahsoka finds Obi-Wan and Anakin at Phindar Space Station
>   * The clone troopers find their generals at a spaceport
> 

> 
> **18 BBY**
> 
>   * _Treaty Negotiations Begin between the Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems_
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin adopt a family from Kijimi and gain First Post-Order Padawan
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin rescue some slaves from Hutt space
> 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant to meet with the Council and find a Sith Shrine under the Temple
> 



	12. In Which Mina’s Notes Begin to Resemble the Conspiracy Wall Meme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin continues his quest to make a mark on Castle Serenno, Dooku continues his quest to recruit the rest of his Lineage, Obi-Wan could do with less of that, everything is the best soap opera Mina has ever watched and Sifo-Dyas still needs more wine.
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “We Belong” by Pat Benatar

### 18 BBY, 1st Month, 5th Day of Negotiations: Castle Serenno

“—mmfgh—!”

At General Kenobi’s noise of surprise, Mina looks away from Dooku, who had just opened his mouth to presumably welcome them back to negotiations. She’s seen quite a lot of things in her days as a senator, so the aggressive kissing doesn’t _bother_ her per se, but—she admittedly hadn’t been expecting it among a group of former Jedi.

She’d been surprised to see General Skywalker at the conference room door at all, since their initial meeting made it pretty obvious he hadn’t been attending these sessions. Now, everything makes sense. The whispers, the close huddle, what had looked initially like hand gestures — clearly this was all just Skywalker doing what married people across the galaxy do in the morning when sending their spouses off to work. In one move, what had seemed like last-minute strategizing becomes sweet nothings, the defensive huddle a more subtle intimacy. The hand gestures were probably just the man adjusting General Kenobi’s robes.

 _At least the view is nice_ , thinks Mina. Is that…? Ah, yes — that’s absolutely a dip.

Are all Jedi this dramatic?

When she finally remembers to look for Dooku’s response, the man has already turned away and is in the middle of dramatically sweeping into the conference room. Well. It’s certainly one of the more _interesting_ ways she’s ever begun a day of negotiations.

* * *

“Really, Kenobi? _Sky_ walker?” Dooku over-enunciates the name like it personally insults him.

Mina flicks her gaze up from her notes, knowing better than to stop taking them if she wants to see where the sudden, disdainful comment leads. Because she does, of course, _want to know_. It’s been hardly more than a few hours and in spite of the frequent breaks in topic, there hasn’t been a single bout of bickering that wasn’t worth listening to.

And, of course, there’s still the matter of the dip-kiss from earlier. Mina’s starting to suspect there was a bit more to that than she initially assumed. She can’t really blame Skywalker — Mina knows what it’s like to do something just to prove a point. Especially if proving it has the lovely side affect of throwing off your opponent.

And the Count, distant and restrained as he might be, is _clearly_ thrown.

Obi-Wan, of course, is anticipating the commentary just as much as she is and merely raises his eyebrows rather passively. “Yes, really.” He tilts the tablet before him and selects a section. “You _have_ to know the wording in Article 17 will never pass muster.”

Dooku waves a dismissive hand in Mina’s direction and she forcibly refrains from rolling her eyes. “A clerical error. I expected better of you.”

It takes her half a second to realize he’s not talking to her anymore: a realization that comes largely due to the way General Kenobi flashes an easy smile that doesn’t match the tension in his body language. “And you know how much it _pains_ me not to meet your expectations, _Count_.”

Mina flicks to a second tab of separate notes and adds a star next to the scribbled shorthand for Dooku’s title. It seems to be a point of contention between them, one she largely suspects to have its roots in the Order they both left. Was there some dispute about a previous title? Did Obi-Wan in some way take over when Dooku left? No, that can’t be right. It was too long apart and she’s fairly sure that, regardless of how the General holds himself, he’s a third Dooku’s age at the absolute _most_.

She tucks a note into the margins to remind herself to look into it, and flicks back to Article 17.

“You are _far_ from the first to leave for a companion,” Dooku continues on a disappointed sigh and sets his tablet down beside a small spread of others laid out on the table before him. “ _Surely_ you know the breadth of your options.”

Obi-Wan seems to finally relent to the inevitable and sets his own pad down with a sigh he’s trying considerably less hard to hide now. “I do not _want_ anyone else.”

Dooku scoffs, but Mina can’t help the soft flutter that stirs in her chest from the blunt statement. It’s been a little too long, she thinks, since she’s heard the same. She knows better than to linger on the sentiment, but experience also tells her it’s not worth ignoring the tug. So she flicks over to her second tab of notes and adds a snippet of old Onderonian poetry in line with the section reserved for the High General, and tries to catch the last of Dooku’s answer.

“ — _hardly_ an ideal companion.”

Obi-Wan’s expression has turned decidedly _amused_ , which is both unexpected and telling. “You would prefer, I suppose, someone more like Master Sifo-Dyas?”

There isn’t a particularly _obvious_ reaction to the name, per se, though the air in the room seems somehow drier all of a sudden. Mina quickly adds the name to her notes, watching Dooku’s expression twist through something she can’t quite place and end somewhere around exasperated amusement. It’s the first time in her decades of work that she has ever envied that Jedi knack for discerning the emotional states of those around them.

“And I suppose you think he didn’t tell me of your little chat?” Dooku says, infuriatingly calm all of a sudden. Mina adds several lines beneath the strange name as she watches the count’s attention shift briefly back to the small pile of flimsi on the table.

Across the way, Obi-Wan rolls his shoulders back in a light shrug, seemingly unbothered by the response. “Did he? I don’t doubt the entire conversation was recorded.”

“Of course he did,” Dooku huffs, as if it’s not a perfectly good question to ask. Right up there, Mina thinks, with ‘who is Sifo-Dyas?’ and ‘why does it matter?’ She knows better than to try, however. At least, not with present company.

The Count’s gaze shifts from the General to the flimsi in hand before he sets the item aside and makes a note on a third tablet. As the silence continues, Mina allows herself a brief moment to switch back to the Treaty they are supposed to be negotiating. She’s not even entirely sure if anyone has _won_ that back and forth, and is still contemplating the significance of any of it when Dooku speaks again.

“I believe you’ll find him just as… _intrigued_ … by your choice of partner.”

All of a sudden, the image of her mother-in-law’s pinched expression during her husband’s proposal flashes to mind. Mina bites the inside of her cheek against the unanticipated bubble of mirth and flicks back to her secondary notes. It’s the first time the General has glanced in her direction for at least the past hour, but whatever he might be sensing, she refuses to let it show.

 _Someone_ needs to be professional around here.

“Really,” Obi-Wan drawls with an expression that declares in no uncertain terms how very little interest he has in the answer.

“You married your _padawan_ ,” Dooku very nearly sneers, plucking up his original tablet once more.

The dryness somehow returns to the air with a new layer of tension that has Mina blindly circling ‘padawan’ on her pad, gaze riveted to the two former Jedi waging war across an old conference table. It raises her hackles no matter the relative serenity of the combatants. If there is one thing this war has proven, it’s the terrifying capability for violence by those who call themselves Peacekeepers.

Obi-Wan, however, simply raises an eyebrow. “Have I offended your sensibilities, Count?” If anything, he seems _amused_.

“They are hardly mine _alone_ ,” Dooku says with a disdainful glance across the table and nothing more.

“Hearing it directly from Master Sifo-Dyas would hold more weight,” Obi-Wan blandly returns, pausing just long enough before adding, “You understand, of course.”

Dooku shifts in his chair: shoulders back, spine just barely straighter, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together. It’s the first time Mina has seen _any_ emotion so openly displayed by the old Count — and of course, it’s offense. She subtly double-checks her exits.

“If Sifo-Dyas wishes to speak with you, he will.” Dooku’s tone is absolutely _glacial_.

Obi-Wan’s reputation, it seems, is not entirely unfounded; in the same moment Mina shifts away from the table, he claps his hands together and _smiles_. “Wonderful! I’m so glad we could reach an accord on the matter.”

Dooku, for the first time since Mina met him so many years ago now, _hesitates_. It’s fascinating to watch the cold, indignant fury somehow pause and bleed out before her eyes. Then, his lips quirk into something resembling a smirk and he says in a calm, dry tone, “I suppose you intend to do so immediately.”

What.

“Obviously, I wouldn’t want to negatively affect our negotiations thus far.”

“Obviously.”

What?

“However, it _does_ seem as though we could all benefit from a break.” Obi-Wan turns then, with a gracious gesture in her general direction and adds, “I’m sure the Senator would enjoy the extra time to catch up before we continue.”

Dooku glances her way for the first time since they _sat down_ and then just settles back with a dismissive wave for their opponent.

Mina slips a hand under the table to subtly pinch her thigh. It hurts, so it’s not a dream, but if that’s the case, what exactly is she witnessing? Did the Count just _concede_ a battle? Against a High General of the Republic? Against a _Jedi_ — former or otherwise?

Not a minute after the General leaves, she turns to her head of state and says quite flatly, “I hope you’re better than that when we’re actually establishing a Treaty.”

“A tactical retreat can win a war, Senator.”

_Sure._

* * *

“You work fast.” There’s a quiet hint of laughter at the end of Sifo-Dyas’s words as he welcomes Obi-Wan on to the open veranda.

“Admittedly, I was expecting more of a fight,” Obi-Wan answers with a glance for the vista and their immediate surroundings. He’s not sure whether the apparent privacy of it all is expected or not at this point.

“I suspect it has a good deal to do with an implication that you wouldn’t be moving forward with the Treaty until your curiosity is satisfied,” Sifo-Dyas says with the expectant rise of an eyebrow.

Obi-Wan sweeps forward to properly join the other man at the railing. “For a man who had no qualms starting a war, he seems rather keen on _ending_ it.” He tucks his hands into his sleeves as he allows himself the time to enjoy the daytime view of the forests below and the sea beyond. It’s probably the first time between both trips that he’s been able to truly enjoy any of the lush greenery and fresh air native to the bustling planet.

A smirk catches at the edges of Sifo-Dyas’s lips, but he lets the moment pass in silence, seemingly content to wait for more direct questions rather than offering up anything of his own accord. Obi-Wan tucks that, and so much else — the quiet, glowing presence of a Jedi Master; the unconcerned, easy openness of his Force signature; the apparent privacy of open air in a Castle bursting with security systems — into the back of his mind to review later and at length.

For now, it’s just the two of them and a mystery years in the making. Where to _begin_?

“You haven’t Fallen.”

It earns him a mildly surprised raise of eyebrows, but Sifo-Dyas merely inclines his head with a simple, “Indeed I have not.”

“… And yet you stayed.” It earns him another, somewhat amused look, but nothing more, which is… surprisingly reticent and also quite intriguing. No matter how Obi-Wan leads, Sifo-Dyas seems entirely unwilling to follow. Unbothered and open, but distant in that way of Masters that’s been all but stripped away from himself in the short time he’s been only Anakin’s. That Sifo-Dyas has not only maintained it in the presence of a Fallen Jedi, and for what could be _years_ , is telling — though he’s not entirely sure if it says more about Sifo-Dyas, Dooku, or himself.

Suddenly finding the humor Sifo-Dyas saw before him, Obi-Wan allows a short chuckle to escape and offers a slight bow of his head to concede the point. Jedi Master _indeed_. It’s been easy, so far, to forget how long Dooku himself was a Jedi. It should be obvious that a fellow former Councilor would be just as stubborn.

“I’m beginning to understand why the Count was so amenable to this chat,” Obi-Wan announces, mirth slipping out of the bond and into the Force even as Anakin pushes back with his own mix of query-affection-amusement. If Sifo-Dyas finds the open nature of his emotions strange, he doesn’t let it show. “Obviously, I am not here to pass judgement and if you don’t want to answer, I’ll not press, but perhaps… as one former Councilor to another: the Order thinks you died, and yet here you are. And you seem… almost _protective_ of the man who plunged a galaxy into chaos.”

Amusement continues to linger in Sifo-Dyas’s presence in the Force, but there’s something a little less defined in his expression. “I have known the Republic for as long as I have known Dooku,” he says, turning slightly to lay a hand on the rail and shift his gaze to the horizon. “The last thing I did before I arrived here was try to ensure the continued existence of the former, as I am sure you have learned by now. Is it so strange that I would be just as protective of the latter?”

“… To the Order, yes, I believe it would be,” Obi-Wan quietly answers, mirroring Sifo-Dyas’s lean on the guardrail, but keeping his gaze on the other man. “I wasn’t present for your time on the Council, but I have certainly read about it. It’s clear you did not always agree with the other Masters on many things, but you stayed when Dooku left and you kept fighting even after you were removed.

“Is that what this is, too?” Obi-Wan gestures broadly between them from the sea to the Castle. “Have you stayed to continue that fight?”

“I think my attachments have been made pretty clear, General Kenobi,” Sifo-Dyas drily returns without even a flicker of discomfort for the wording.

A flash of uncertain surprise shimmers through the bond before Obi-Wan can catch it, leaving him half-distracted by having to soothe Anakin’s resultant demands for reassurance of his own continued health. “… While I can appreciate your point, there’s a difference between being forced to stay and willingly siding with him. You say you have not Fallen, and that appears to be the case, yet…”

“Yet I have not left,” Sifo-Dyas finishes for him, finally pulling his gaze from the horizon to face Obi-Wan directly. “For the sake of brevity, allow me to pose a question.”

Obi-Wan straightens from the rail with a broad gesture to continue, allowing his open curiosity to say the rest.

“Would you leave Anakin?”

* * *

“I don’t see what any of this has to do with” — Obi-Wan checks his notes — “the presumptive responsibilities of the local governing body over region-specific spans of international hyperspace routes.”

Dooku’s stare is withering. “You cannot base the continuance of these negotiations on the pursuit of purely personal inquiries and not expect to receive the same in kind.”

Obi-Wan gives a sigh of sheer disappointment and allows the tablet in his hand to tilt back towards the table. “Questioning the presence of a _presumed dead_ Jedi Master is hardly _personal_ —”

“You no longer speak for the Order, Kenobi.”

The scratch of Mina’s stylus on her tablet is loud in the resounding silence that follows. She glances up, relieved to find the two men still in the middle of completely ignoring her existence, and quickly flicks back to the extensive list of suggestions forming for the actual topic at hand.

The General, meanwhile, sinks back into his chair with a surprisingly exasperated sigh and drops his tablet on the table. “And _you_ left long before I ever did, presumably for entirely different reasons, so I fail to see the reason for hounding me over my _entirely real_ marriage.”

Was _that_ the reason for the dip-kiss? Huh. She flicks back to her secondary notes just in time to hear the Count’s response.

He looks surprisingly entertained by Obi-Wan’s statement. “You ran from the Order and you do not think I would _care_ , padawan of my padawan?”

Mina has barely enough time to highlight the term with even more circles around it before Kenobi retorts with a sarcastic, “Ah yes, the same amount of care you showed when Master Jinn died at the hands of the Sith who was _your ally_.”

Dooku looks more disgruntled than insulted. “Qui-Gon never should have lost that duel. I trained him to be better.”

Obi-Wan’s expression neutralizes in an instant, as if all the irritation of mere moments ago simply flushes out. “And yet he was killed. He died and you did nothing.”

“Isn’t that what all good Jedi do? Nothing?” The Count returns stiffly to his seat, silently calling over his notes with a curl of his hand. He glances up from the pad one last time to catch Obi-Wan’s cool expression and adds, “But I am _not_ Jedi, and when Qui-Gon died, I did _everything_.”

Mina will freely admit to knowing from the moment Onderon signed on that the Confederacy was hardly the political movement Dooku was making it out to be. There were far too many financial interests involved to believe it anywhere near grassroots and too much hot air besides. She’s beginning to think, however, that the Count may be a good deal more personally motivated than she originally thought.

It’s strangely heartening.

### 18 BBY, 1st Month, 6th Day of Negotiations: Castle Serenno

Obi-Wan leans forward to refresh two small cups of tea, rather relieved to find his preference to do so manually seems appreciated by the Jedi Master across from him. In many ways, Sifo-Dyas is the very image of the master Obi-Wan himself always strived to be. He remains reserved, collected, and thoughtful even in a place and a situation that would leave most rattled. It’s both familiar and disconcerting for a multitude of reasons shared only through the privacy of a bond that the same sort of master should be scandalized by the very existence of, and yet…

And yet, although he sits here, now, settling back with a nod of thanks for the refilled tea, Obi-Wan knows he is not always so. There have been moments of exasperation too genuine to write off, laughter too long and too boisterous for the Temple grounds, fondness too deep in the way he holds himself when Sev’rance speaks with him before and after each session.

The way the General holds herself and watches _Obi-Wan_ — sharply, like a hunter deciding whether or not they have prey in their sights — is more protective than someone simply fulfilling her duties to her superior.

“She would have made an excellent Jedi,” Obi-Wan compliments in lieu of asking and takes a sip of tea.

Sifo-Dyas seems to have more or less adapted to his methods by now, and therefore knows immediately where his mind is, even if General Tann left the room several minutes ago. “I agree,” he says simply, with a fond smile. Then, offering the first unprompted commentary since they started these chats, adds, “So would Ventress.”

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows slightly, but says only, “I’m glad to find I’m not the only one who believes as much.” If he’s spent time with both of them… “I cannot speak to General Tann’s abilities, but Ventress, at least, seems to have something in her of Jedi teachings.”

That same sort of subdued mirth he’s become so familiar with in the few hours they’ve spent together tugs the corners of Sifo-Dyas’s lips. “Dooku was a Jedi, too.”

“Does he still teach as one, then?” Obi-Wan’s words are a little too disbelieving to be taken at face value and he gives a light wave of his hand shortly after to prove he doesn’t require an answer. “I have fought Ventress enough to know what she learned from him.”

“And not enough with Sev’rance, from the sounds of it.” Sifo-Dyas chuckles and sets his tea down. “You were one of Qui-Gon’s, weren’t you?”

Obi-Wan blinks slightly at the transition, unsure if he’s being steered away from uncomfortable topics or towards something Sifo-Dyas actually wants to discuss. “I was his padawan, yes.”

Sifo-Dyas’s expression tightens, but he says only, “My condolences, then, and my apologies for not being able to give them in a timely manner. My time with him was admittedly limited, especially after he was Knighted and spent his time Force knows where…” He shakes his head and settles back in his chair. “I can tell you, though, his passing was deeply mourned.”

The sudden wash of support-concern through the bond reminds Obi-Wan to relax his expression before the tension in his emotions can be noticed anywhere else. Nevertheless, he allows a small frown to form. “You understand why I might find that difficult to believe.”

“I understand, and you _can_ believe, at least, that I made my opinion on how he addressed it with you _very_ clear.” The words are dry and almost tired, slipping too easily into a sigh Obi-Wan can practically feel seep into the air around them. “However I can also tell you that whatever other decisions he has made since leaving, choosing to abandon his Lineage was, at best, the lesser of many evils in his eyes.” Sifo-Dyas pauses then, gaze falling to his hands as if literally feeling through the words. “He regrets it. He won’t say it, of course, but I know him.”

Obi-Wan’s expression slips to wry. “He has an interesting way of showing it.”

It’s enough to stir some mirth back into the Jedi Master. “Oh, I suspect you don’t know the _half_ of it.” Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow and is rewarded with a soft laugh and a casual wave between them. “If it weren’t _his_ plans constantly being foiled by the two of you, I daresay he’d be _proud_.”

It’s difficult not to return the good humor in kind. “… And here I was under the impression I was passing along _Master Jinn’s_ tradition of driving the Council crazy.”

“Who do you think _Qui-Gon_ learned it from?” Sifo-Dyas shakes his head again, shifting forward to take his turn pouring the tea. “Though, as one former Councilor to another? _Someone_ needs to keep them on their toes. It’s a tradition I’m glad to hear has continued.”

* * *

“No.”

Dooku’s expression is tight, but neutral. “Pardon?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t bother looking up from his notes. “I said ‘no’.”

“No question has been asked,” the Count points out, his attention split half between Obi-Wan and the tablet in hand.

The General scrolls carefully through the section currently under review, clearly finishing a paragraph before answering. “I’m attempting to improve our efficiency,” he explains, largely to the pad of information balanced between the table and his hand. “It’s about time for you to once again point out the instability inherent in our current arrangement and vaguely imply how much better off we would be if we abandoned duty and morality and gave ourselves over to the Dark.”

Mina can’t quite withhold the snort of amusement that escapes in time with the Count’s offended scoff. He glances her way only briefly before muttering, “You say that as if your padawan—”

“ _My husband_ would like to remind you of that time you _cut off his arm_ — I won’t repeat the rest for the sake of our continued cooperation.”

* * *

“… And wherever it is you’ve gone, you’re sure you’re safe there?” Sifo-Dyas doesn’t move much when he asks the question, but the feeling of concern lingers in the Force between them.

“You _must_ know I’m not going to divulge our whereabouts.” Obi-Wan remains reclined to one side as he speaks, settling his hand over his beard in a small, thoughtful tell of how carefully he considers the question in spite of the speed of his reply.

Sifo-Dyas watches him a moment longer than needed, saying only, “It’s a fine line you’re walking.”

“I admit I’m a little surprised you’re the one making overtures now.”

Unexpectedly, the old master barks a laugh. “ _Force_ no,” Sifo-Dyas slips in between chuckles. “Stay far, far away from the Confederacy.”

Surprise flits out into the Force between them, Obi-Wan raising his eyebrows in a silent appeal for explanation. Sifo-Dyas just waves a dismissive hand as he calms once more, though the distinctly _entertained_ expression never quite leaves his face.

“Oh, end the war, of course,” he quickly allows. “Just remember who it is you’re speaking with. If I really though the Republic could handle _itself_ would I have done what I did? Obviously not.”

“Who would you have us join instead? The _Hutts_?” Obi-Wan drawls quite before he’s thought it through. It’s a little too easy to get lulled into banter with a man he can’t be sure has anyone’s best interests at heart. The dry huff of laughter that follows his words, however, is a little too genuine in the mix of affection and humor to ignore.

“Don’t exaggerate. Join no one, or join everyone. I can’t give you any insight on it,” Sifo-Dyas murmurs with another, off-handed twist of his wrist not unlike similar gestures Dooku has made throughout their discussions over the past week. “I wish I _could_ , but one of the benefits of this arrangement has been enjoying the first years since I was a youngling that haven’t been spent entirely overrun by death, destruction, and terrible sleeping patterns.”

Obi-Wan straightens where he sits, uncaring of how obviously his attention has been drawn by this suddenly offered piece of information. “Your visions have improved?” Even as a Councilor, he’d had very little access to all the files on Master Sifo-Dyas and certainly less inclination to go digging through them all. What little he did recall, however, was how adamant — particularly near the end of his term on the Council — the other man had been about the strength of his dark visions of the future.

Oddly, Sifo-Dyas hesitates a moment before replying with a quieter, “They have… lessened.” He shifts, losing some of his humor as a curl of disquiet drifts into the Force. “The longer I am here, the less harsh, the less… panicked everything feels. Not gone, not _completely_ , but… less frequent. The Force isn’t as… desperate.”

Obi-Wan watches in silence, pressing his lips together against the urge to interrupt anything else the former Councilor intends to add. Given the now-more-distant look in his eyes, however, Obi-Wan is fairly sure Sifo-Dyas hadn’t _intended_ to share that last bit regardless. He has, admittedly, very little experience with Force visions besides what Anakin has confided in him over the years, and he knows all too well how poorly he’d managed that.

He knows, also, how poorly Sifo-Dyas was handled.

It was never explicitly stated, of course, but it is easy enough to read between the lines of the reports. To note the skepticism with which the accounts of visions are always given. To see and be asked to approve plans for out-of-the-way care facilities to house Jedi who cannot pull themselves out of the Force long enough to be themselves. Obi-Wan hadn’t thought about it much, then — outside of a pang of sympathy for those afflicted — but he can’t help but put a face to them now, in the image of the collected master quietly gathering himself across the table from him.

“… This trip,” he says, pausing to make sure he has Sifo-Dyas’s attention before explaining further. “Part of the reason for it is ensuring our safety going forward.”

“And you believe you’ll have it?” Sifo-Dyas immediately presses, gaze suddenly sharp and attentive as the cloying feel of concern drifts between them again.

Obi-Wan frowns behind his hand and furrows his brow. “If not due to your visions, then what do you mean by that?”

Sifo-Dyas presses his lips together and straightens in his chair. “For the moment you are safe, but it’s not _the Republic_ that fears the loss of you two — because they haven’t lost you. Your presence here proves as much.” He makes a short, inclusive gesture between them. “Beyond that, I think we both know that whatever the specifics, you will come to terms, not because Dooku will actually manage to pull you away from the Republic or because you’ll find some way of ‘convincing’ him into a peace he doesn’t want, but because now is the time to be practical and, without a curtain of darkness between you, ultimately, you are both _eminently_ practical.”

“Due in large part, it seems, to your influence,” Obi-Wan points out with a significant raise of his brow.

“That’s not the important part,” Sifo-Dyas shrugs with his words. “So long as you remain in Confederate space, you are safe from reprisal within the Republic. That is, so long as the Confederacy continues to exist, of course.” He raises a hand to forestall Obi-Wan’s intended interruption. “Likewise, so long as you maintain ties with the Republic, you have a measure of safety from the Confederacy. Surely, you also realize that so long as you remain separate of the Order, you are safe from _Dooku_ as well.”

Obi-Wan hides a flinty expression behind a brush of a his hand over his mouth. He knows it’s not enough to entirely withhold his reaction to the pointed words, however, and quietly concedes the point. “You want to know what keeps us safe from the Order.”

It would be easier to brush off it wasn’t precisely the source of so many of the decisions that led them here.

Sifo-Dyas returns the honesty with a grim quirk of his lips. “As you said: we have both been on the Council — or rather, we have _all_ been on the Council. We know what to expect. And Dooku…” He sighs, his expression a mix of exasperated fondness Obi-Wan is all too familiar with. “He is _stubborn_. It’s been ten years and I’ve barely managed to claw him back from the depths. I honestly doubt I will ever convince him entirely out of the darkness. Quite frankly, if he didn’t want to be there, he wouldn’t be.

“But there is also _loyalty_ in that stubbornness. So he won’t abandon the Confederacy — not now that it’s _his_ — and if his Lineage is no longer positioned against him—”

“Are you _sure_ you’re not trying to recruit for him?” Obi-Wan drily cuts in.

He receives an equally dry look for his efforts. “The last thing this galaxy needs is _more_ people calling themselves Sith,” Sifo-Dyas bluntly counters. “He wants you to Fall because he wants you to _join him_ , yes, and if we’re being so forthright, I can’t sit here and tell you there wouldn’t be benefits to such an arrangement — both ways — but I still ask that you _not_. I have spent far too much time dragging him out of that pit to watch him pull others in instead.”

Obi-Wan’s expression is shrewd, but he maintains his silence, inclining his head for Sifo-Dyas to continue with what he so obviously wishes to say.

“Unfortunately, it’s not as easy as just refusing his offers and tucking away somewhere out of sight, is it? The Council would have been wary to lose either of you regardless, but especially so now that they’ve lost almost the entire Lineage.” Sifo-Dyas pauses long enough that it almost feels like a hesitation — a moment to reconsider his words before plowing forward again.

“Dooku took… _many_ years to Fall completely. For all they know you and Skywalker may not be far behind. What they don’t understand — what they _can’t_ — is that Dooku didn’t fall on his own; he was approached. Led in.”

Obi-Wan’s shock reverberates into the Force. He sucks in a breath, hastily shoving reassurances through the suddenly active bond, and leans forward towards the table between them. “There _is_ another Sith—”

“There _was_.” Sifo-Dyas doesn’t elucidate beyond the candid correction and doesn’t need to — his tight expression and the way he withdraws in the Force relays his discomfort clearly enough. “The Order isn’t aware of the threat that was, nor that it no longer exists to threaten the two of _you_. They can’t know, so they worry, and they _won’t_ understand because the way you left makes it impossible for them to believe you, should you attempt to explain it.”

“Whatever our disagreements, they are still Jedi Masters of the highest caliber,” Obi-Wan instinctively cuts in amongst the nascent fear clawing at the edges of nerves already worn from worry. “They can handle the uncertainty—”

“You _know_ they have not let this sort of thing lie before.”

“That was a different situation,” Obi-Wan defends with a shake of his head as he pulls back to his own chair again.

Sifo-Dyas gives him a look of patient amusement that would suit any master observing a particularly unruly padawan. “How long will it _remain_ different, Kenobi? For now, certainly, it’s just you and Skywalker. When Dooku left it was just him, too. You know very well he’s had two apprentices since then. Two you _already_ have.”

He says it with such certainty, part of Obi-Wan can’t help wondering how much of the statement is Sifo-Dyas and how much the Force. The other part is just glad he hasn’t been subjected to this during negotiations. No _wonder_ the High Council couldn’t deal with him. There’s a cold shiver in his bones where serenity should be buried and he’s been backed into more corners in these brief conversations than he can ever remember running into with anyone else.

So he draws a slow breath, lingering in the warmth of Anakin’s affection-concern-faith that saturates the bond, and sighs into a vaguely defeated twist of his lips. “We are safe. I cannot tell you where. I cannot tell you how, and I know it may not stay that way, but for now, we’re safe.”

The Force around them settles placidly with Sifo-Dyas’s calm smile. “Then tell Dooku. Otherwise, he’ll never stop pestering you.”

* * *

“You should meditate.”

Anakin doesn’t need to see his master’s expression when he can feel the twang of shock muted by exhaustion and instantly soothed by affection somewhere deep in the open tunnel of their Force bond. It’s been months since he last bothered closing it himself, and just slightly less than that since Obi-Wan stopped bothering to try on his end, so it’s not like it should be _that_ surprising that he would notice all the frayed edges. Not as if he didn’t before the bond, either.

He shakes his head lightly against the small curl of annoyance and stubborn insult that rears its head at the very idea his master could be somehow so amazed he noticed something so obvious and snags Obi-Wan by the wrist, bodily redirecting him to a thick carpet in the middle of their borrowed rooms.

“Sit,” he directs, rather unnecessarily given the wan expression and curl of amusement that shifts between them. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan sinks to the floor with him, the very picture of serenity in moments. Anakin doesn’t bother withholding the rush of fondness that follows.

He’s always known Obi-Wan was stubborn, of course, but even _knowing_ that, it was difficult to reconcile against how often and how perfectly the man maintained the facade of the calm, collected Jedi Master. Now, he doesn’t have to remind himself because the bond is open and all of Obi-Wan’s exhaustion, worry, and worn edges are out in the open. Not _publicly_ — he wouldn’t _ever_ allow Obi-Wan to be so exposed — but between them. It’s nice — not having to guess or remember — and it’s desperately sacred to him in a way few things have ever been in his life.

< Anakin. >

Warmth-embarrassment-exhaustion.

Anakin smirks and closes his eyes. It’s always been easier for him to fall into meditation with someone else, and with Obi-Wan it’s barely seconds before they melt into the bond together. The tangled walls of their Force signatures bleed away and into the Force together — as they _should_ — and peace returns. Cool and still. Everywhere and nowhere in silence.

Which, of course, he breaks almost immediately.

“So apparently General Tann has a boyfriend.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t respond, but he can _feel_ the sigh in the Force.

“No, really, she does!”

< It’s a man, similar in shade to the Separatist General, with the same, eerie red gaze. His stance is just as confident, straight and commanding, but somehow _rougher_ in that way of those who spend their lives in the underbelly of the galaxy. He’s not as put together as the General either, looking more like he lives in his clothes, the wear and tear of which speaking volumes about his daily activities. >

“He said his name was Vandalor,” Anakin continues, spinning the tale of his day split between his quiet voice and the easy visuals of his memories spilling over between them. A day spent traipsing through the increasingly hidden and locked-away sections of the Castle, triggering every alarm and trap in his way, until redirected to the town beyond by an all-too-amused mercenary — an entertained if vaguely irritated General in the background.

“I was making some real progress, too — that’s why she kicked me out, I know it,” he says with all the certainty of the Force ringing in his words. Soft curiosity floats back through the bond, slow and unwilling to disturb the placidity surrounding them. “There’s something here. I mean, the whole _planet_ is covered in it—”

Alarm-surprise-concern.

“… Don’t you feel it?”

Obi-Wan’s presence in the Force brightens in curiosity and slides closer. Anakin presses back, a flicker of eager flames encouraging the soft light to join them. Only once he’s twined them together all over again does he draw Obi-Wan away from himself and deeper into the heart of a planet that pulses dark, but _powerful_.

< A wide, rough hewn cave. Yawning darkness that refuses to be caught by the light. The echo of screams in nothingness. The shriek and sizzle of lightning. Dark hallways and weakly flickering lights. The feeling of something moving beneath your feet, slithering into places unseen as a black fog sinks into the air — >

“There was another Sith.” Obi-Wan speaks so suddenly, Anakin snaps his eyes open again on instinct.

“ _Another_ one?”

Obi-Wan draws a steadying breath and carefully pulls himself back from the pleasant tangle of the two of them in the Force, settling comfortably back into himself alone before opening his eyes again. He feels better, at least. “Apparently, someone gave the Count directions to the Dark Side.”

Anakin’s brow furrows. “I seem to recall being told there were only ever _two_.”

“Yes, well, apparently no one told _Dooku_ ,” Obi-Wan drawls.

“ _Apparently_ ,” Anakin echoes with more than a bit of gallows humor in his tone.

“And if Master Sifo-Dyas is to be believed, it’s a moot point besides.”

Anakin’s eyebrows raise together at this, immediately catching everything left unsaid in that one moment. “… Dooku killed his master, and…” —his face twists with the knot of confusion in his Force signature, “… decided to end the war and make peace with the Order?”

Obi-Wan just exhales shortly, equal parts lost and vaguely amused. “Well, _something_ happened, at the very least, and I don’t believe I was being lied to about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Actual Notes:
> 
> NGL, writing this chapter was _so much fun_. (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧ I’ve got such a thing for third party observations of insanity so I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. We’ve got one more round of negotiations before things more or less wrap up and we spend a good deal more time in the present, answering even _more_ questions. (´꒳`∗)
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ ) 
> 
> **32 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis doesn't die!
>   * Sifo-Dyas travels to Oba Diah  
>  <Shatterpoint> Doesn't die, ends up on Serenno with Dooku. It's complicated.
> 

> 
> **22 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Sev'rance Tann doesn't die!
>   * Fun Times With Jabba's Kid ("Mission to Jabba's Palace" Story Arc)  
>  <Shatterpoint> Sifo-Dyas makes a convincing case for the Confederacy.
> 

> 
> **21 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Mina Bonteri is not killed by Dooku
> 

> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis Dies Here
>   * Battle of Sundari  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn't
>   * Separatist Movements abruptly change
>   * The Departure of the Sith
>   * Dooku kills the entire Separatist (Leadership) Council
>   * Ventress is laid off, is pretty okay with this
>   * Ahsoka's Trial / Leaving The Order  
>  Tholme tells Obi-Wan to keep his lineage in check because shit's getting real
>   * Obi-wan Negotiates General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatist  
>  <Shatterpoint> (obviously this never happened in Canon, but it basically replaces all of Anakin's bad decisions post Ahsoka so we'll call it a shatterpoint)
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin take a vacation to Yavin 4
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at Phindar Spacestation and are found by Ahsoka
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at an unnamed spacestation on the Perlemian Trade Route and buy a bus
> 

> 
> **18 BBY**
> 
>   * Treaty Negotiations Begin between the Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin adopt a family from Kijimi  
>  Gain First Post-Order Padawan
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin rescue some slaves from Hutt space
> 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep until the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
> 



	13. In Which Dooku Is Honestly Feeling Very Attacked Right Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone doing their best actually accomplishes something positive for once (but that doesn’t mean it’s easy).
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: "Knock on Wood" by Amii Stewart

### 18 BBY 1st Month, 6th Day of Negotiations: Castle Serenno, Inner Halls

The conference room door closes behind them, but Obi-Wan doesn’t immediately turn away. Deeply orange rays of a low setting sun cast through the slim windows of the hall, but all that greets them is empty stillness. This late in the day, so deep into the castle, no servants linger and no aides hustle by. Every few feet, a visible camera keeps watch, but it, like everything else, remains frozen in a hushed silence.

Dooku pauses with the General, absently casting a glance down the hall for Skywalker’s flaring presence — no doubt irritable from their late departure — and is mildly surprised to find no one there. If it were anyone else, a frisson of caution would draw his hand towards the hilt forever clipped to his waist. Because it is Obi-Wan who waits, however, so too does he, one eyebrow raised to indicate his attention and no more.

Eventually, the General crosses his arms in that way of his that settles contemplation over the whole of his form, and turns to face him directly. “It’s against my better judgement to even say this much—”

“Oh, I am _intrigued_ , Kenobi, _do_ continue.” 

That Obi-Wan takes the barb at face value — as Dooku might begrudgingly agree it was meant — speaks more to the improvement of relations between _them_ , if not the political bodies they represent. 

The General thus delivers only a wry expression in response and continues as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “So consider this a gesture of… good faith.” Kenobi’s voice ticks up at the end, as if he himself is amazed by the words as he says them.

“… Good faith?” Dooku repeats, because he has been given nothing else and is, admittedly, intrigued by this sudden, careful conversation, given after official hours and artfully _alone_. 

Obi-Wan’s expression turns… weary, if he had to put a name to it. The man remains _remarkably_ closed to inspection in the Force — even for a Jedi — and Dooku finds himself unable to wholly rid himself of the tangle of pride that springs up with the observation.

“Yes,” Kenobi nevertheless continues, a hand finally returning to his beard in the same contemplative tell Dooku is never quite sure isn’t manufactured. “I suppose you could consider it from one… ex-Councilor to another.”

The words draw his attention as sharply as they were no doubt intended to. Amusement filters up quicker than anything else, however, and the Count finds himself indulging a small quirk of his lips in an all-too-limited show of amusement. “Very well,” he rumbles, “then as one former Councilor to another…?” 

“Your overtures are not misunderstood,” Obi-Wan begins as he watches Dooku in turn. “Nor are they dismissed _out of hand_. I know what to avoid to keep us safe — without a planet and without an army and without the platitudes that surely bought you several years’ time.”

He raises a hand to forestall interruption, but Dooku merely settles back on his heels and raises his eyebrows, waiting for the rest. 

Kenobi manages to hide his surprise well enough, at least. 

“So there really is no reason to allow our … personal stakes in all of this to continually interrupt further negotiations. I should think it obvious that we will defend the Republic should you attack it once more, but if there is peace — _true_ peace — well, I like to think you already realize we have no incentive to hassle you _either_.” 

“And you believe in that, do you?” Dooku finds himself entirely unwilling to withhold the crisp retort. “That we could ever have peace — ‘true peace’ — after all we have done to one another?” He leaves his words purposefully open, anticipating Obi-Wan’s answer more than he cares to admit.

What was before a tightly restrained presence in the Force disperses into ripples of cool serenity. “… A wise master once told me that people are more than their worst act,” Obi-Wan quietly recites, a curious mix of wistfulness in his words and hope in his gaze. “I choose to believe he was right.”

### 18 BBY 1st Month, 7th Day of Negotiations: Castle Serenno, Living Quarters, Second Wing

Anakin grins and leans back in his chair, tugging his opponent’s final play piece back to him with an easy pull of the Force. “What’s that make it?” he asks, twirling the hand-carved miniature between his fingers.

“Five games,” Vandalor answers flatly, pushing away from the table in a show of frustration relatively minor compared to the amount of it wafting into the Force around him. His eyes narrow — they grew brighter, Anakin noticed, in the heat of battle, even if only over a dejarik board. 

“I think you’re getting worse at this,” Anakin can’t help pushing, enjoying the way the Chiss twitches in that strange way of his, undeniably restrained for how aggressive the rest of him appears. 

The man never really rises to the bait, however. Even now, when the Force between them is layered in frustration, he just shakes his head with a huff and mutters something in a language Anakin can’t make out. Then, a hand lands on his shoulder, and a smirk appears instead. 

“If you are done picking on the rank and file,” Sev’rance drawls, giving the shoulder in her hold a brief squeeze before releasing it to step around, “perhaps I can offer a challenge?” Immediately, Vandalor pushes out of his chair, turning away with a nod for her and nothing more. Anakin shifts upright himself, floating his captured piece back to the board as she settles into the chair without a backwards look for her companion. 

“Thinking pretty highly of yourself,” Anakin answers, but not without the sudden thrum of anticipation that comes with an actual confrontation. 

Sev’rance merely smirks and raises a hand, using it as a focus to gather the pieces together again. No matter the stiff way she holds herself normally, it’s easy to tell the task of resettling so many pieces at once is not an easy one for her. Anakin can’t help wondering why she chooses to do it. It’s not as though it hasn’t been made clear in their previous encounters which of them is stronger in the Force. 

Then again, she’s never won any of their encounters with the Force alone. 

“Well, not like I’m going anywhere,” he says with an easy shrug, mostly just to see if she can handle the distraction. Peace negotiations or not, it’s useful information. 

Her eyes narrow, and he can’t tell if it’s the shrinking aperture or something else that makes them seem to glow just a bit more as one of the pieces wobbles in place. Then, like a youngling catching their place in a training exercise, she steadies her hold and finishes resetting the board. “Have you tired of Carannia already?”

No acknowledgement of the effort, and no reason given for it. Anakin shrugs and gives up on dissecting the subtleties. “I don’t _really_ prefer the castle either, at least so long as I can’t get into the South Wing—?”

“Absolutely not.”

“So it’s here or being harassed by every person I meet along the way,” Anakin explains with an exasperated sigh as he directs an opening move with his left hand. “I swear, it’s worse than _Coruscant_.”

Sev’rance leans forward to manually move one of her pieces in return and settles an arm on her knee to maintain the position. “They saw you leave the castle, I take it?”

Anakin pauses, eyes narrowing at the inexplicable sense of foreboding that slips through the Force with her words. Instinctively, he too leans forward, only glancing at the board before continuing his play — manually, to match his opponent. “Of course they did. The entrance is practically in the middle of the street.”

Her lips quirk and she tilts her head slightly in open amusement. Well, open for her, he supposes. “The _main_ entrance, yes.”

“Why does _that_ matter?” Anakin half-mumbles, glancing between her and the board as he waits for her move. 

“Most of the staff do not use the main entrance,” Sev’rance explains, contemplative and casual all at once. She reviews the board one last time before gracefully plucking a piece from it to place her move. “Dignitaries, visitors, guests… these people arrive and leave through the front gates.” She pauses, then, glancing up to catch Anakin’s gaze with her own as she retracts her hand from the board. “The only member of the House who enters and leaves through the main entrance would be Master Sifo-Dyas.”

At first, he draws a blank. “What’s that supposed to—?” Sev’rance’s smirk deepens with the growing amusement in her Force signature as Anakin rapidly pulls together the threads she’s laid out before him, while desperately attempting to shunt swiftly-rising panic into the Force. “Wait, they don’t— they can’t— they don’t think I’m — They _have_ to know who I am _by now_ , don’t they?”

Sev’rance gives an unhelpful shrug, brushing long hair back out of her face with all the care of the casually oblivious. “I can’t imagine they _would_. Serenno was rather insulated for decades before the war even began—”

“But that doesn’t mean— just leaving the castle doesn’t mean you’re _part of the harem_!”

Anakin’s distressed _squeak_ is mercifully drowned out by Sev’rance’s full-bellied laughter.

### 18 BBY, 1st Month, 7th Day of Negotiations: Castle Serenno, Estate Gardens

Obi-Wan, for the first time since these conversations began, looks genuinely taken aback. Sifo-Dyas finds himself hoping it’s more an indication of how at ease the General has become in his presence and less to do with the sharp spike of shock that skirts his wide eyed stare before drifting into the Force. Either way, it’s enough to pull them up short on the path.

“He _electrocuted_ you?” Kenobi echoes, turning to face him directly.

Sifo-Dyas tries not to sigh. He had been hoping they could side-step this discussion a bit rather than engage it head on. He knows better, of course. He shouldn’t have been bundling it up and tucking it away anymore now than in the first place. A moment of weakness in the horror of those first years is more understandable, at least, than blithely ignoring it for the several that followed.

He tucks his hands into his sleeves instead and simply inclines his head. “He did.” It’s better than listing anything else, he thinks. Best not to jeopardize the tenuous peace so far forged by digging up any more of the indiscretions between himself and Dooku — in recent years or the long decades before that.

Concern slips out of the carefully managed Force signature before him, lingering like a fog in the air between them as Obi-Wan’s brow furrows. “And you’re… _fine_ with that?”

Sifo-Dyas _does_ sigh then, glancing over Kenobi’s shoulder to the great castle rising behind him and expelling the same mess of emotions the memory always stirs out into the Force. “Compared to discovering Dooku’s Fall, and the betrayal of trust, being subjected to Force lightning is… a relatively minor footnote, don’t you think?” His delivery is bone-dry bordering on sarcastic, but the General seems unconvinced at best. 

“So you just… released it into the Force?” Obi-Wan gives a short flick of his hand to mimic the utter lack of belief in his words. 

“As I may have mentioned, I _remain_ a Jedi Master,” Sifo-Dyas drolly retorts, banking his discomfort and the twist of memory with practiced care and folding it deeper rather than releasing any of it into the Force where Obi-Wan can observe it. 

“Yes, well, having also been a Jedi Master and having also suffered a blast or two of Force Lighting, I feel I can say with certainty it isn’t _quite_ so simple.” Obi-Wan’s expression is withering, but his words are what bring the slow realization that Sifo-Dyas may be more out of his depth in this discussion than he initially realized. 

Ultimately, he finds his lips twisting into the shadow of a wry smile before he can think to stop the reaction. “No,” he says, voice dipping into cold memory as he struggles for detachment, “I suppose it wasn’t, at that.”

Obi-Wan steps forward suddenly — a move so wholly unanticipated that Sifo-Dyas can do little more than blink at him as his personal space is invaded. “If you need to return to the Temple—”

“You are literally negotiating for the sake of your safety _from_ the Order and you’re offering to take me _back_ there?” Sifo-Dyas incredulously interrupts, no matter the gravity of their previous words. “Why would you _ever_ —?”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Obi-Wan says with a shrug that belies the weight of his words. 

Sifo-Dyas struggles to catch up, his mind still drowning in things he wants to forget and desperately grasping for the nearest safety line. “… Are you sure your — husband would agree?”

It’s enough to lighten the mood, at least, given the spark of amusement in Obi-Wan’s gaze. “What makes you think this wasn’t Anakin’s idea?”

The ridiculousness finally becomes too much, drawing Sifo-Dyas away with a backward step and wry shake of his head. Honestly — “Sometimes, I forget it’s not just _Dooku_ — it’s your entire _Lineage_.”

Obi-Wan quirks an eyebrow even as his expression shifts to something less lighthearted. “Well, far be it from me to judge,” he begins while turning back to to continue their stroll, “but I can’t help thinking kidnapping, torture, and betrayal are not the … _best_ … basis for a relationship.”

Sifo-Dyas follows after, allowing some of his tiredness and discomfort to slip into his words. “I feel the need to point out that the basis of our relationship is _not_ , in fact, being kidnapped and — electrocuted.” He _had_ said he would speak with the man, after all. It should really come as no surprise to find Obi-Wan so intent to plumb the depths. 

Kenobi nods as if he’s said something worth careful contemplation. “Admittedly, the Council largely assumed your previous relationship to be the reason for your presumed death.” A pause. “Well, that and the attempted usurpation of the army you commissioned.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Sifo-Dyas says in spite of the mood — or perhaps because of it.

Ever the gentleman, Obi-Wan graciously accepts the slightly bitter words with a brief bow of his head. “I am not blind to the fact that — whatever moral discomfort we might have with the wholesale production of people for the sole purpose of _war_ — we would indeed be in a far worse position had you not acted as you did.” Kenobi looks over then, a careful, assessing sweep of his gaze. “And after speaking with you, I must say I can only begin to imagine what visions would have driven you to take such a radical approach.”

This tactic, at least, is familiar. Sifo-Dyas turns towards the foliage with a shake of his head, observing the evergreens and carefully trimmed hedges in lieu of allowing Obi-Wan to watch _him_ further. “The creation of the army is most likely why the Sith considered me a loose end to be cut… an attempt Dooku _did_ make.

“Yet, I awoke here. Injured, yes. A prisoner, yes — for a time. But alive.” The memories lurk in the dark, slithering eager tendrils of fear-anguish-love-pain around his heart, but he turns back to Obi-Wan with a gentle smile. “There is a lot about that time I would prefer to forget — and I sympathize that you can so clearly denote which part of it stings the most — but if I could endure the pain, it’s only because I was alive in the first place. And if I was alive, I thought, it can only be because some part of my old friend still existed.

“It is _that_ part, Master Kenobi, which provides the foundation of my relationship with the Count.”

* * *

Meditation doesn’t help. 

He still tries. 

Hours pass after the disconcerting reminder of everything he’s been trying not to think about for so long and if Sifo-Dyas wasn’t so intimately familiar with the ruthless drag against his shields, he’d swear his afternoon was spent anticipating visions that remained dancing just out of reach. He’s not sure if he’s thankful they never happened, or just at the end of a rope he’s been clinging to for too many years. So he waits just long enough to ensure Dooku will be waiting for him to return to their room and strides in with the courage of a man who willingly released his last lifeline. 

“We need to talk about the lightning.”

If Dooku looks surprised, he certainly doesn’t show it. He gestures to the small seating area by the closed balcony doors and acknowledges his words with a simple, “You’ve been speaking with Kenobi.”

“Yes, but also—” Sifo-Dyas hesitates half way into the room, lips pressed together as he quickly reassesses. There’s a fresh bottle of wine on the small table between a pair of well-worn, but still stately, chairs, both positioned towards the view of the rainy outdoors rather than the hearth in another corner of the room. Dooku stands just to the right, calmly waiting for him to take the other offered chair, and all Sifo-Dyas can think of just then is how strange negotiations must have become for the Count to anticipate _this_ conversation. 

He shakes his head, withholding a sigh he’s not sure isn’t relief and glides forward to take the offered seat. Dooku pours his glass by hand and with that one gesture Sifo-Dyas realizes he’s not the only one with a marked dislike for the topic he’s about to broach. If there’s one thing to be said for both of them, however, it’s how stubborn they can be — especially together. 

“We never talked about it,” is what Sifo-Dyas leads with, once the wine bottle is returned to the cooler. 

“You never wanted to,” Dooku points out, not unkindly, and raises his own glass before taking a sip. 

What is there to say to that? Sifo-Dyas tries not to linger in the quick flash of memory, suddenly appreciative for the distraction of the wine. He takes a slow draught and falls to contemplative silence, trying to determine his next words. 

Dooku, predictably, beats him to it. “Tell me what you want, Sy.”

It’s an… unexpected request. “What I _want_?”

The Count presses his lips together — irritated or indecisive — and settles back in his chair. “You already understand what my mindset was at the time — I doubt you need a full recounting.”

It’s true, so he inclines his head.

“So what do you need from me?” Dooku presses with that same, cool determination he uses to approach any great challenge. Sifo-Dyas can’t quite smother the small feeling of accomplishment that comes from being on par with all the incredible things his friend has done in his long life. It does little to prepare him for the follow-up. “An apology?”

“Do you regret it?”

“Yes.”

Surprise startles into the Force between them before Sifo-Dyas can even think to send it there himself. He tilts his head slightly, brow furrowed as he presses against Dooku’s signature for some hint of the man’s emotional state. “You never mentioned it,” he quietly points out, observing the shift behind walls they both know he can’t breach.

If Dooku finds it intrusive, he doesn’t let it show — and doesn’t return the gesture in kind, either. “I never did it again,” he murmurs, an explanation on its own. Dooku pauses long enough to set his glass aside, making a dismissive gesture in the process. “And either way, it’s certainly not _enough_ to merely apologize.”

That’s… unexpected. Sifo-Dyas exhales slowly, willing himself from the darkness of memory and into the warmth of the moment instead. It’s not as easy as he wants it to be, but the careful pressure against his own shields is both familiar and far more helpful than it by any rights should be. “No,” he finally allows, “I suppose it isn’t.” 

It’s the truth, at least. If they can keep that between them, the rest should follow. 

“So what do you want?” Dooku repeats his question with surprising patience. It’s appreciated, but not exactly helpful in the moment. 

Sifo-Dyas can’t quite put to words the tumble of emotions still so tangled around one of the worst experiences of his life, Jedi Master or not. He’s never really had the time to _process it_. Most of that first year on Serenno was the very definition of a Sith Hell. That they made it through at all speaks more of desperation than the careful examination of pain points he might have managed in the Temple.

But Serenno will never be the Temple, and there isn’t anyone remotely qualified to have that discussion with _other than_ Dooku. 

“Revenge?” 

Sifo-Dyas blinks at the sudden suggestion, forcibly dragging his wayward thoughts back into the conversation at hand long enough to deliver a reprimanding, “ _Doo_.”

Dooku’s expression is anything but repentant. “Reciprocation, then?” he blandly continues. 

Surprise once again flickers into the Force, this time with curiosity at its heels. “… You would _let_ me?” He can’t quite keep the fascination from his voice, and swiftly decides it’s not worth questioning why.

“Of course.” Only Dooku could look affronted over having to confirm an offer of bodily harm.

 _Honestly_. Sifo-Dyas settles back with a shake of his head and a brief, incredulous laugh. “Are you sure you aren’t trying to cause my Fall, Doo?”

The tension breaks with Dooku’s soft, disbelieving huff. “I think we both know how well that would go,” he says with an absent wave of his hand. Neither of them lingers on the memories of the several months spent attempting precisely that. “In any case, it’s not as though using Force Lightning will make you Fall in and of itself.”

This spawns little more than a skeptical raise of his eyebrow, but Sifo-Dyas can hardly find it in himself to be irritated with the way this conversation has derailed.

“I practiced it for _decades_ before I left,” Dooku drily explains.

“… and Fell,” Sifo-Dyas counters in much the same way.

It only earns him a light shrug. “Eventually, yes. However, it’s not _inherently_ Dark. I suspect there are several Jedi capable of the technique.”

Sifo-Dyas lets the statement hang for the moment, choosing instead to take another sip of wine. It’s not as though they haven’t shared _extensive_ discussions on the nature of the Force and various techniques in the past, it’s just — Dooku is not usually so _blunt_. Of course, their previous discussions were all carefully curated so as not to approach this particular topic in the first place, so — 

“Sy.”

He looks up immediately, surprised Dooku is pushing the topic at all, let alone rising from his chair and extending a hand. 

“Come. I will show you.”

### 18 BBY, 1st Month, 10th Day of Negotiations: Castle Serenno, Guest Accommodations

“How long should I wait, do you think, before telling them Parliament has adopted the Treaty?” 

Mina’s voice is just loud enough to be heard between them as they stroll the halls of the grand castle, lacking nothing of her usual calm command for the lowered tones. Dooku appreciates it as much as the collected way she presents herself. Even in the Force, her presence remains steady and closed off, an impressive feat for any Force-blind sentient, but especially so for a woman surrounded by some of its most gifted practitioners in decades.

“A day should be convincing enough.” It’s more forthright than he’s been during her entire stay, and her look askance acknowledges it without comment.

There’s no real reason to wait other than making a show of it, of course. She knows that well enough without him having to say it. While her presence here is ultimately beneficial, it is in no way required. She knows this too, which is why she came. It’s a careful balance: enforcing the reminder of the other branches of government without actively crossing him (for her sake, her planet’s, and her family’s), and certainly without making too much a show of it before representatives of the Republic. There’s a fine line between making sure they know the Confederacy doesn’t move on Dooku’s whims alone and exposing political weakness to foreign interests. 

“And then?” she prompts, just as firm and just as quiet, gaze carefully forward. 

“And then, Senator, we have peace,” he murmurs, drawing to a stop at the entrance to her quarters. “Good day—”

“For how long?”

Dooku’s lips quirk into a tightly approving smirk no matter the rigid way he turns back to face her directly. “I am sure you realize how little control I have over that.”

Mina stares back, chin up without _looking_ up, a serene display of control so deep it echoes in the Force. “I’m not sure I believe that, Count.”

Tension returns somewhere around the base of his skull, but he doesn’t let it show. Well, he supposes that he wouldn’t _appreciate_ her if she couldn’t unwind at least some of the threads she has no way of seeing. “I am not sure what I can say if you won’t believe me,” he answers with a pointed raise of an eyebrow.

Her lips pull into a dry smirk. “You can keep your reasons if you think you must, but we both know there is a limit to what people are willing to put up with.” 

“I believe, my good Senator, neither of us would be here were that not the case,” he cannot help pointing out. It’s been a long while since he’s felt so compelled to talk openly that he finds himself wholly unwilling to _stop_. 

The faint sense of agreement floating out from her tightly-bundled presence in the Force tells him enough before she speaks, but he still finds himself surprised by the bluntness of her words. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to _trust_ the Confederacy if you want to keep it.”

He frowns, but in spite of the soft spike of fear, she doesn’t turn away. Instead, she waits — a quiet, anticipatory bundle in the Force and nothing more. Politicians are often easy to read, he’s found, but so malleable it can be difficult to get any real feel for them in the Force. With Mina, however, the feeling of _earnestness_ never truly disappears no matter how strongly she barricades herself. 

“Is that supposed to be an offer?”

“If you want it to be.” Her answer is immediate, but banked with a rueful shake of her head before he can respond. “It doesn’t have to be me, though, of course. Not that it matters, but I won’t take offense if it isn’t. Just…” She sighs and glances down the hall, noting, most likely, the absence of servants and other staff, before returning her attention to him directly. 

“You explained the removal of the Leadership Council to me the _day_ you killed them,” Mina bluntly begins again, somehow holding his gaze with a determination that never shifts to challenge. “I appreciated your directness then, so allow me that same directness _now_.”

He inclines his head before he even really thinks about it. “By all means, Senator Bonteri,” — a small, open gesture with his hand — “be as direct as you like.”

Her expression tightens, but she returns the gesture with a gracious nod. “I don’t know everything that happened to make this a reality. I can’t know, because even though you helped _form_ the Confederacy, you never once attempted to make allies with those of us actually managing it. I used to think it was because you had the Leadership Council to keep us in check. Frankly, it was still better, in most cases, than what I’d been dealing with in the Senate for years. Parliament, I think you’ll find, _still_ largely agrees with me on this. 

“You can understand, then, how I now find myself unsure of that original assumption. I do not know if you have merely changed your stance, or if I was wrong the entire time, but I too have been doing this a long time, Count, so I can tell you, quite truthfully, that I don’t really care which it is. Ultimately, we’re better off no longer under the heels of conglomerates, and we have you to thank for it. Just like we have you to thank for no longer being under the yoke of the Republic. So, in that regard, we have no choice, but to trust you.

“However—” She pauses, finally allowing herself the small show of reassurance by crossing her arms before she continues, head tilted slightly as if to carefully observe _his_ reaction. “— if no one knows what you’re doing, we’ll always be scrambling to catch up. We can’t properly _support_ directives we can’t anticipate, and I for one don’t want to be apart of _another_ government whose different branches only exist to push against one another.”

Mina stops there, gaze shrewd and expression pinched as she waits for a reaction. Dooku allows the silence to stretch between them as he considers her words. It’s not entirely surprising that she feels this way, given her suggestions and the general way she has held herself throughout the negotiations, but the fact that she took the time to say any of it to him directly speaks volumes he hardly anticipated having to parse through when he decided to walk her back to her rooms. 

It’s the risk she took, more than anything, that makes his decision. 

“An opinion we share, Senator,” he says, curling his cape behind him with a formal nod — acceptance and dismissal in one. He turns back the way they came, letting his cape settle again before adding, “We shall speak on it more while the Senate debates,” over his shoulder. 

The bright spark of her success-hope-uncertainty follows him down the hall. 

### 18 BBY, 1st Month, 13th Day of Negotiations: Castle Serenno, Main Study

“The … Ambassadors… tell me you reached an agreement.” 

Palpatine is hooded, as usual, looking every bit the Sith he isn’t and Dooku should be more irritated by it than the bone-deep weariness that fills him instead. The tone is the man’s typical, wheedling nonsense somewhere between grating and terrifying, which is even more annoying now when Dooku actually _wants_ to hear the frustration and exasperation and utter cluelessness he knows his actions _must_ have caused. He gets none of that satisfaction, of course, but neither does the Chancellor, which will have to do for now. 

Dooku inclines his head to the holo-projected image and makes a small, dismissive gesture with one hand. “They believe so, yes.” 

He is rewarded with a lengthy pause. Then, Palpatine _smiles_ and it takes a lifelong practice of self-control to keep bile from rising into the back of his throat. “Is there really a need for all this… frippery, Count? Surely, we’re beyond formalities by now.”

If Dooku had any question as to whether this was being recorded, it left the moment Palpatine dragged his title into the chat. 

Even still, he only placidly raises his eyebrows. “Then there is no need to explain myself further.”

The corners of Palpatine’s lips twitch — just the bit — in a way unduly reminiscent of a withheld chuckle. Dooku has known the wily politician long enough by now to understand the well-controlled sneer for what it is, however, and allows himself a small measure of triumph for it. “If you still have… _reservations_ —”

“You haven’t taken my ‘reservations’ into account before,” Dooku drawls, projecting boredom until he feels it and it can show even through the jittery lines of a long distance holocall. “I hardly see the point in bringing them up _now_.”

“Perhaps if you had mentioned something _beforehand_ , a more… equitable solution could have been reached.”

The sharp flash of rage that hardens Dooku’s expression is far from manufactured — no matter how it plays into the Chancellor’s perceptions of him. “If you had not forced my hand, perhaps I would have included you in my _own_ plans.”

Palpatine smirks then, a dark slimy thing somehow infinitely more disturbing than the expression ever was on their shared Muun mentor. “Come now, Dooku,” he murmurs in a voice somehow cajoling in spite of the darkness that seems to crawl out of the holo as he speaks, “surely you understand why I could not. In the end, was it not to your benefit?”

Dooku narrows his gaze in an open demonstration of irritation he only vaguely feels anymore. It’s been a year or more since Plagueis’ untimely demise and he can still remember the pleased curl of tattooed lips as the Iktotchi woman breezily announced the conclusion of one vision and invited him into the continuance of another. 

He wonders — not for the first time — what Palpatine had expected of him in that moment. 

Blind rage, perhaps? A declaration of reprisal? Or was that just a minor hope? A brief acceptance that Dooku may simply see an opening and take it? Had Palpatine _truly_ expected to usurp the entire plan in that one moment, unknowing of how ridiculous it was to expect Akis herself to present any sort of challenge to Dooku? Or had he merely expected the two of them to fight it out over what remnants of power remained and make do with whatever came of it? 

In the end, the only real change was one less person to work around and one less faction providing support — and one more headache from trying to salvage what resources he could from the scraps. Dooku represses the urge to reach through the holo-projection, tear through the very fabric of space with the Force, and press all its eager whispers around Palpatine’s throat until it crushes in his hand. 

“… Let them think they have _time_ ,” he hisses, channeling the anger into words instead, spinning a tale for the unwilling audience before him. “Let them relax. Let them remember _peace_. Let the fools who think they are in control seethe over their wounds and lost fortunes, and let them think they can recover _any_ of it. Then, once my armies recover and the brush is cleared, you will have your _war_.”

He pauses then, visibly collecting himself for the sake of the performance. “I think you will find, Chancellor, that a little bit of _hope_ is all that is required to break even the strongest of wills.” 

Dooku knows the dramatics are worth his effort when a raspy cackle matches Palpatine’s disturbed grin and the man claps his hands together once, sharply. Expectation, victory and vile glee seep into the Force no matter the distance between them. “It’s been too long since we last spoke, my friend! Oh I have _missed_ your plots.” Then, before Dooku can properly offer the segue himself, the Chancellor’s hood turns towards something off screen. 

“Ah, and that would be my wonderfully helpful _former_ Jedi checking in. A shame you couldn’t convince them to _you_ , of course. I suppose it’s down to more… mundane methods, hm?”

The projection cuts out before he can answer. 

Dooku closes his eyes, draws a slow breath, and spins violently from the communicator, slapping a nearby wine glass with a spike of the Force. It shoots across the room and shatters, wine and all, into the roaring flames of a stoked fire. It doesn’t help.

“ _Doo_.”

He exhales roughly, this time without the violence, and sweeps away. From the desk and the holocomm atop it. From the fireplace and the hissing flames licking at the broken glass. From the infuriating reminder of everything he’s sacrificed to get himself into this ridiculous _mess_ that Palpatine’s words were no doubt calculated to inflict. 

Sifo-Dyas waits by the small balcony already opened to the cool wind of early night, his brow furrowed just slightly, no matter his calm presence in the Force. Dooku brushes past, through the door to the open air beyond. They both know he won’t ignore the silent request for his presence Sifo-Dyas won’t put to words because he _knows better_ , but he needs this first. 

The sharp, clean air of a city thawing from winter’s freeze sweeps through his cloak, flaring it out to his side as his hands land on the stone rail. Below and beyond twinkling lights illuminate houses and businesses and several sprawling estates. Trees bend with the wind, breathing life into the air as the Force flows up through the soil, seeping through the sea beyond and the stone beneath until it presses with the cold into his skin and settles into his bones, slowly unmaking the churning storm within. 

It’s not enough on it’s own, but it lets him _breathe_ again.

Inhale calm.

< “Do you really think they would _allow_ it?” The Muun — no, the _Sith_ — turns away from the large window overlooking a busy cityscape, looking every bit the well-to-do businessman he doesn’t have to pretend to be. 

Every fiber of his being tells him to draw his saber. Even now, several meetings in — several chances to end the life of a creature so mired in the Dark Side, Dooku honestly wonders if he ever once saw the Light. _He_ is not the Force, however, and neither are the teachings that try to push him into movement. _The Force_ slinks around him, rising with sweet whispers of change and truth and power. 

“Say what you mean,” is all he manages, casting his gaze from the Sith out over the city beyond in a blind show of confidence. 

Hego — _Plagueis_ the Dark coos as it brushes against his shields — delivers a patronizing smirk in response, the kind Dooku’s seen echoed in back rooms and political soirees the galaxy over. “Do you really think the Republic will _allow_ for an alternative? The _Order_? No one in power is so willing to give it up—” >

Exhale troubles. It’s a shaky breath, but he manages.

Light and warmth shunt the memory aside.

“Doo.” His name is so much softer this time, compelling him to open his eyes again and look to the warmth at his side. Sifo-Dyas steps closer, encouraging more of his Force signature to sink into Dooku’s in an unrelenting tangle of strangely possessive warmth that keeps him rooted to the moment instead of tumbling headlong into memory. 

“They sent me out like a mascot.” 

It’s a familiar rant and returns a familiar response: Sifo-Dyas moving close enough to offer the physical reassurance he never seeks out. 

“The whole _Order_ thought sending me to the Senate actually accomplished something. Anything. That appearing at _social events_ was just as important. _Yoda_ thought—” He stops short and shakes his head. 

< “Master you cannot mean this.” Qui-Gon’s braid swings as he turns to look to him. Somehow, it’s always the most active part of his padawan. “In a few short months I will face my trials—”

“Which you will pass with flying colors,” Dooku interrupts, passing his frustration into the Force with the well-practiced grace of a master. 

“What then?”

“You’ll become a Jedi Knight.” He raises his eyebrows in emphasis.

“To what end?” Qui-Gon’s voice falters, nearly lost in the chaotic buzz of music, gossip, and excited banter. “If what you say is true, I might as well give up now. I want to make a _difference_. I want to serve the galaxy!”

“And you will,” he answers on a sigh, knowing it won’t be enough for his earnest padawan. “Pay no heed to me, Qui-Gon, or to Master Braylon. We are old. Past our prime.” 1 >

“Nothing worth doing is ever easy.” Sifo-Dyas’s quiet words center his anxious, wandering mind once more. This close, their signatures so entwined — in ways that would give the rest of the Council heart attacks, he’s sure — Dooku wonders how much the other man can make out as he presses thought-memory-emotion into the Force. 

Plagueis once taunted his instinct to pass emotions in such a way, calling it a weakness of the Order. A coward’s way of _pleading_ the Force to manage what you yourself cannot handle. A true Sith cultivates memory and emotion — always half a step in the past: a rooted fount of emotion. From passion to strength, and from strength, _power_. But power isn’t _thought_ and he can’t prepare for the future if he can’t _plan_. If he’s too caught up in what’s in front and behind to lay the groundwork for what lies ahead.

How ironic, he thinks, to finally carve out the future he so doggedly pursued in the Order only after embracing the darkness that drags him away from it. 

“From here on…”

“Say you’re alone, Doo, and I swear I’ll toss you over the side.”

Laughter doesn’t _quite_ make it past his lips, but enough of it slips past his shields to know Sifo-Dyas _feels_ it. 

No conglomerates’ eager backing. No more Sith lurking in the wings, a bastion of support from the shadows. No turning back to the wreckage of burnt bridges from a previous life. Even Ventress left him, given the chance. 

Not alone, perhaps, but dangerously low on allies at the worst possible time. 

“Is this the victory you saw, Sy?” The words don’t sound as tired to his own ears as they by all right should. He turns in time to catch the crinkle of crow’s feet at the corner of brown eyes — amusement and fondness alight in the familiar signature so deeply entwined with his own. 

“As usual,” Sifo-Dyas answers with a soft chuckle, “I think your version is better.”

* * *

#### Footnotes: 

  1. Scott, Cavan. Dooku: Jedi Lost (Star Wars) (p. 312). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition. ↩



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Commentary:
> 
> In the process of writing this, I realized I kind of accidentally stumbled into the chance to have Obi-Wan quote Qui-Gon Jinn to Dooku’s face, so uh… _obviously_ that had to happen Ψ(☆ｗ☆)Ψ
> 
> Anyway! 
> 
> We finally let loose our inner Dooku fangirls on this chapter and, uh, I guess it kind of shows? Sorry not sorry, we were due for something longer anyway. It’s just how I roll. へ‿(ツ)‿ㄏ
> 
> Also, in finally giving everyone some of Dooku’s perspective, we’ve reintroduced a lot of kind of background information that’s been at most vaguely hinted at until now. Feel free to re-read for details, I’ll do my best to summarize the important parts in the Timeline below. 
> 
> Also _also_ — this chapter has the longest section of notes for any chapter yet and led to this lovely commentary by AuroraExecution that I can’t _not_ include:
>
>> Palpatine’s machinations aren't quite as focused on _Dooku_ in this timeline since they're allies and not master/apprentice.
>> 
>> He certainly is still trying to use/manipulate Dooku for his own gain, but there's less of a "yessss fallll" and instead it's just like "yessss get planet xyz to sign this shitty treatyyyy"
> 
> You’re welcome.
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ ) 
> 
> **32 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis doesn't die!
>   * Sifo-Dyas travels to Oba Diah  
>  <Shatterpoint> Doesn't die, ends up on Serenno with Dooku. It's complicated.
> 

> 
> **22 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Sev'rance Tann doesn't die!
>   * Fun Times With Jabba's Kid ("Mission to Jabba's Palace" Story Arc)  
>  <Shatterpoint> Sifo-Dyas makes a convincing case for the Confederacy.
> 

> 
> **21 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Mina Bonteri is not killed by Dooku
> 

> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis _Is Killed By Palpatine & Darth Akis_
>   * Battle of Sundari  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn't
>   * The Departure of the Sith
>   * Dooku kills the entire Separatist (Leadership) Council
>   * Separatist Movements abruptly change
>   * Ventress is laid off, is pretty okay with this
>   * Ahsoka's Trial / Leaving The Order  
>  Tholme tells Obi-Wan to keep his lineage in check because shit's getting real
>   * Obi-wan Negotiates General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatist  
>  <Shatterpoint> (obviously this never happened in Canon, but it basically replaces all of Anakin's bad decisions post Ahsoka so we'll call it a shatterpoint)
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin take a vacation to Yavin 4
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at Phindar Spacestation and are found by Ahsoka
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at an unnamed spacestation on the Perlemian Trade Route and buy a bus
> 

> 
> **18 BBY**
> 
>   * Treaty Negotiations Begin between the Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin adopt a family from Kijimi  
>  Gain First Post-Order Padawan
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin rescue some slaves from Hutt space
> 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep until the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
> 



	14. In Which the Authors Are Sorry For the Wait and Provide Apology Porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yavin gets new residents, Anakin plays space-taxi, Obi-Wan plays Indiana Jones, Cody would like to know what the heck is going on _ever_ , Padmé wonders about her life choices and everyone is Sola.
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “Rude Boy” by Rihanna

### 18 BBY, 2nd Month: Yavin IV, Jungle

“General.”

“Through here?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Obi-Wan gives his old commander a wry glance for his slip of the tongue — it’s only been a few weeks to change battle-born habits — and steps closer to the large panel that appears to be built into the side of the land itself. Cody’s stare is unrepentant, of course, but it’s a moot point when faced with the telltale insignia printed into the stone before them. 

“… I should have brought Anakin,” he murmurs, one hand reaching up instinctively, but hovering just shy of touching. Something… something about the Force in that moment makes him pause, but he’s not entirely sure _why_. In the bond, a curl of curiosity checks in on him, but only faintly — an instinctive response rather than a concerted effort.

Cody frowns slightly, both at the stone and the (former) Jedi inspecting it. “… Sith, then?” He skeptically returns.

“No.” Obi-Wan’s answer is immediate, no matter his wandering senses. “No, you were right, this is… this is definitely Jedi. It’s an older insignia, however…”

“Older?” Cody prompts, gesturing to the small group of men off to the side. They look up from their datapads long enough for one to give a firm nod before returning to their work.

Obi-Wan's expression drifts to inquisitive as he walks back, joining Cody a few feet away from the rock face to take in the entire fresco. "It's still colored — _how_ , I'm really not sure, given the apparent age. I can't imagine anything about this planet is _remotely_ beneficial to preservation _especially_ to any possibly organic…"

" _Organic_ , Sir?"

"Possibly. Honestly, it's difficult to tell around here," Obi-Wan murmurs distractedly, his attention locked on the stone again. "It may match the age, however." He raises a hand again, this time to gesture to the swooping, circular portion encompassing the rest of the design. "The wings haven't been blue in… thousands of years, at least."

"… Wings?" Cody sounds a bit like he's growing tired of repeating everything his old general is saying, with the slight sigh at the end of his words. All the same, he asks. One of his men jogs over, passing a datapad with an instinctive salute to Obi-Wan — earning him a swat and some good-natured ribbing on his embarrassed return.

Habits indeed.

Somehow, a chuckle slips from Obi-Wan's lips in place of the sigh that feels more commonplace. He shakes his head lightly and steps close enough to the large symbol to better indicate the sweeping outline that almost forms a circle. "Here," he gestures toward the blue portion of the sigil. "They're referred to as wings in many older texts, although I must say there hasn't been much discussion of the symbolism or where it stems from in…" He frowns thoughtfully. "… well, quite some time at least."

"Yes, well, fascinating as that all is," Cody gruffly segues, quickly joining his general directly in front of the stone, "we thought you'd be more interested in what's _behind_ it."

Obi-Wan blinks, attention summarily torn from reminiscing over archives he can no longer reference, and brought back to the situation at hand. " _Behind_ it?"

Cody smirks knowingly and passes along the datapad. 

There’s a moment of silence as Obi-Wan stares down at the diagram unfolding in blue lines on the slim device in his hand.

"… It's a _door_?"

"Seems like."

On instinct, Obi-Wan raises his hand again, this time opening himself to the strange shift in the Force he'd felt earlier, and lays his hand on the stone. It feels cool, at first. Rough from weather, with no immediate difference in texture between the colored and uncolored sections. And beyond… yes, the feeling of… not quite life, but not quite emptiness either. 

A sudden hiss of air is their only warning before the stone panel suddenly splits down the middle. Cody shoves him aside before the panels part more than inch, but it's only seconds before both halves vanish into the creeping foliage. In its place, a wide corridor of stone catches the light. Obi-Wan stares, sharing a brief glance with the man who has stared down the maw of death more than once at his side, and steps forward again. Cody, knowing better by now, just lets him go with a sharp look to his brothers who have, predictably, already trained (out of date, uncoordinated) blasters on the opening. Good men.

"… When you said you found something," Obi-Wan calls out wonderingly as he steps into the revealed opening — immediately, strips of what initially appeared to be stone embedded near the top of the surprisingly spacious corridor blink into a soft, continuous line of white light that quickly bends downward and out of sight. "… You weren't kidding."

### 18 BBY, 3rd Month: Yavin IV, Underground — Lost Jedi City, Outer Rooms

By they time Anakin finally gets back to the partially dilapidated rooms they call home, it's been nearly a _day_ since he got back from incrementally ferrying the 501st and 212th to Yavin, and he _still_ hasn't seen Obi-Wan for more than a nod and a brief smile. _Seven hours_. He'd thought the week was long, but seven hours on the same moon was going to drive him crazy. 

Before him, a natural spring splits ancient stone, its cool waters a relief but not the sort he's after. For that, the bond pulls him in deeper, past the antechamber.

At the entrance to the partly caved-in ruin they're using as a bedroom, Anakin pauses, taking a moment to smooth his hair and check his clothes. It's not that he's nervous — they're a little too familiar for that — but there's always a part of him that still falls into the old padawan habit. And now, with the current status of their relationship, he wants to look _good_ , too.

A sprinkling of affection-amusement-encouragement splashes into the bond just as Obi-Wan glances up from his reading material. "Do you need a minute?" he teases, blue eyes bright with humor as he sets the tablet into a hollowed out nook by their bed. 

Anakin looks like he's sidetracked by a multitude of reactions to the statement, but ultimately his number one annoyance overrides everything else he's thinking. "It's been _seven hours_ , Master!"

"Well, six days and seven hours, but who's counting?" 

Anakin's face shifts into a pout without him even thinking about it. " _Master_."

Obi-Wan's quiet laugh is everything he's missed, which isn't fair in the _least_ , but then he's rising from the bed _barefoot_ and that is, apparently, more than enough to distract Anakin all over again. He can probably count on one hand the amount of times he's seen Obi-Wan barefoot in any residence they've shared, and it's sort of endearingly domestic in all the best ways to see that little concession to comfort in private in ways he's never had before they had each other. 

" _Anakin_ ," Obi-Wan interrupts his musings with a prod in the bond and a fondly exasperated huff at the end of his name. "Should I be asking you the last time you _slept_ instead of when you plan on coming in?" It's sweet, and part of Anakin just wants to nap in Obi-Wan's arms until he gets his energy back, but the rest of him is still stuck on the _week_ of being away. Instead of answering, he surges forward for a kiss.

Obi-Wan catches him, of course, because Obi-Wan is the _best_ and can feel the same want-need-adoration that's been simmering under his skin for _days_. Sometimes, in those moments between moments in the depths of hyperspace, Anakin could still _hear_ the old masters in the Temple warning against these sorts of attachments. Of not being able to leave someone behind, of not being able to hold yourself together, of being lost in the rush of emotion that would drag you into the darkness. It had finally seemed to ring true thousands of lightyears away in the middle of a sleep cycle without Obi-Wan at his side for the first time in _months_. 

And maybe they have spent too much time together and maybe the bond _is_ too open and too solid and too _much_ , but here and now he just doesn't care. There, and then, it had been the constant thrum of life-love-affection that had held him steady. Here and now, it's Obi-Wan's hands that drag him flush — one in the small of his back and the other tangled somewhere in the wilds of his hair — and the familiar scratch of his beard that grounds him. It’s the push of a talented tongue with an elegant tilt of Obi-Wan's head that meets him just as eagerly and welcomes him home. 

He lets Obi-Wan lead the kiss for the moment, enjoying the feeling of stability and security that accompanies _home_ , and, more specifically, Master. Still, the longer the kiss lingers, the more restless Anakin gets, until he's pushing back like he would for a spar and nipping at Obi-Wan's bottom lip with intent.

It's met with an urgent roll of hips against his own and a soft groan that escapes with the motion. Then Obi-Wan shifts back, pulling Anakin along with a tug on his hair just light enough to stay playful. Half a step back and the hand pressing their hips together slides around front to drag Anakin forward by the belt instead, accompanied by a teasing sensation in the bond. Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows in a familiar, taunting way that’s usually a lead-in to the opening stance of Soresu. 

Oh, a _challenge_. Anakin is here for that any day, in any circumstance. He'd long ago learned that going with his impulses is the best way to surprise his Master, so now he lets them lead him into suddenly putting out a hand and habitually forming a fist. Two steps in front of him, Obi-Wan lifts off the floor.

" _Anakin_!" The barely repressed _squeak_ at the end hardly does justice to the sudden wave of surprise and disconcerted awe that crashes through the bond. It does, however, highlight the thrum of _interest_ that follows immediately after. It's not like Anakin hasn't managed similar feats in the heat of battle, but he can feel a certain thrill mirrored in the bond over the amount of strength and care it takes to hold a person aloft without hurting them. 

"Yes, Master?" Anakin can't quite get rid of the smugness as he tosses Obi-Wan onto the bed, taking care that the landing isn't too hard. Still, he rather likes the idea of throwing Obi-Wan on the bed to be ravished, and the thought comes with a pool of heat building in his stomach. It's allowed now, he reminds himself, and lets that arousal overflow into the bond.

Obi-Wan's answer is muffled somewhere amidst the fall to the bed, and lost entirely by the rush of heat that spreads a pleasant flush down his neck and over his cheeks. There's still that little moment of hesitation before he reflects anything back across the bond, remnants of an old life never really forgotten. Then he raises a hand and tugs, retaliating with a short push of something not quite solid against Anakin's back. 

"I didn't quite catch _all_ of that, Anakin," he says, voice low and somehow _amused_ in spite of the slight quickening of his breath and the lurch of adrenaline and lust that churns, unrevealed, in his end of the bond. "Care to elaborate?"

Anakin's eyes narrow. He's pretty sure Obi-Wan is making fun of him, and he's not sure why, but he decides he's going to win this encounter by making sure Obi-Wan has the best sex of — well, this week, at least. No reason to limit their future prospects too much.

He moves with Obi-Wan's Force push toward the bed and then kneels over his Master — his _husband_ , and if _that_ doesn't send an extra thrill through him every time.

"Obi-Wan," he says seriously, looking down. For some reason Anakin has been all but banned from using ‘Master’ in these sorts of scenarios, and he keeps meaning to think about that one further later, but right now he's too preoccupied with the crinkle of Obi-Wan's eyes and those deceptively strong shoulders and the — 

"Yes, Anakin?" The humor hasn't quite vanished, but there's a bit of breathiness at the edge of his name. Obi-Wan shifts beneath him, powerful hands curling around the backs of Anakin’s thighs to pull him closer. A flick of anticipation-arousal-want slips through the bond like an invitation as one hand shifts to stroke the back of his thigh in accent.

It's hard not to squirm when Obi-Wan says his name like that, and touches his thigh like _that_. Anakin bites his lip to hold back a moan, then decides he doesn't need to and lets it out. 

It also occurs to him that Obi-Wan is all-too-clothed for this endeavor, with the exception of his lack of shoes, so Anakin's next move is to push the soft under-tunic off of Obi-Wan's shoulders before turning to the thin sleep pants. Obi-Wan moves with Anakin's sudden decision just as easily in bed as on the battlefield — it's not so different in the flow of the Force between them. So he twists with the sudden push of his shirt to drag the rest of it up and off and toss it aside, seemingly uncaring of how the movement makes it clear how far the flush of arousal has travelled. The sleep pants quickly follow, falling into a pool of worn cloth on the floor, leaving him gloriously naked at last, and already half hard for the effort. 

"There now," he rumbles, stretching as he resettles on the bed in an obscene arch that brushes his naked thigh against Anakin's still clothed one. It shows off firm musculature in a way no Jedi should be able to so casually demonstrate. "I think this was more what you were looking for?"

Anakin finds it's been surprisingly easy to get used to the tight heat coiling in his stomach as he looks down on Obi-Wan's pleasantly nude form. Actually, it's more of a struggle to look away, but then again, this _is_ the first downtime he's gotten for a week, so for now he doesn't bother trying. Instead he grins, trying for sensuality but unable to quite make it away from sloppy affection, and then works on his own waist ties with one hand.

Fond, if amused endearment filters through the bond again, confirmed by the quirk of Obi-Wan's lips. Then he's leaning up, wrapping one hand demandingly around Anakin's neck to drag him close, nipping teasingly at the tip of his nose, his lips, the corner of his mouth. Another hand drifts lower, brushing past loosened waist ties to curl warmly around Anakin’s growing erection. It's just the one, careful movement to draw him out, but Obi-Wan's hand twists just right, brushing encouragingly along the full length of it… 

Images slip across the bond in quick succession. It's difficult to keep track beyond the overwhelming heat-lust-want suffusing them, but it takes Obi-Wan too long to pull them back for it to have been _entirely_ on purpose. His teases are usually more fleeting, and his breath hitching too much in the moment, pale skin flushing once more, for the memories to be anything but accidental spillover. Still, he tugs on the back of Anakin's neck, keeping them close as he shifts his weight to lay them both back on the bed in open invitation, no matter the faint embarrassment over his slip-up. 

For a moment Anakin is still, staring in awe down at Obi-Wan, at his perfect Jedi of a Master who apparently also struggles with lustful thoughts. "Obi-Wan," he says, and it's halfway between a coarse whisper and a moan. He knows there's something else he's supposed to be focused on right now, but he's too busy leaning down for a fuller kiss. His cock brushes against the hard muscles of Obi-Wan's stomach, sending a streak of sensation through Anakin that vibrates in his throat as a muffled cry.

Obi-Wan shifts beneath him, fingers tangling in the wild curls of Anakin's hair to tug and tilt until his lips are parted by the demands of a talented tongue. For a long, breathless lurch there's nothing but that hot tongue in his mouth, pushing and drawing back in a familiar rhythm. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Obi-Wan's other hand settles into the small of Anakin's back, a hot weight pressing down until their hips rock together. "Anakin," he breathes, almost a moan and shaky with an arousal Anakin can already feel pressing urgently against his own. "You don't have to wait, Dear One."

There's a moment where Anakin is too distracted by Obi-Wan's mouth and hands and hips, and _what does he mean Anakin doesn't have to wait_. Anakin tears his gaze away so he can _focus_. Then he gropes his way down to Obi-Wan's ass, gives it a squeeze, and moves lower.

Wait a minute.

"You already--"

Obi-Wan lurches up with a bitten-back yelp at the undignified prod. " _Anakin_ — Force, _yes_ , don't just—" Denial jolts through the bond half a second before the flush actually manages to further redden freckled skin. 

There's not actually much Anakin can say, but he can absolutely pout about it. He was going to take his time, go slowly, maybe see if he can improve on his fingering technique from the last few times.

"… Anakin.” It's a touch more cajoling this time. Obi-Wan's presence in the bond softens, warm and far more deliberate as he reaches out to tangle their signatures together. "You still can," he murmurs as he pulls away to catch Anakin's gaze more directly — that it also lays him out on the bed is apparently just a bonus. "I just thought you… felt a little wound up?"

Okay. Okay, Anakin can deal with that. Quickie now, take their time later. He's got this. "You're very thoughtful, M—Obi-wan," he teases and moves forward to line himself into place.

Obi-Wan's gaze is a little baleful, although it’s difficult to gauge whether it’s because of the wording or the almost slip of the tongue. The man can be prickly over the strangest things. Still, he rolls his hips up and hooks a leg around with a muttered, "Come _here_ ," and Anakin drops his hips on instinct. 

It's still tight — _Force_ could Obi-Wan be _tight_ — so he hesitates when the warm, slick heat tenses around him, watching with care as Obi-Wan eases his way. It's always fascinating to watch his normally reserved master struggling with a desire he can _feel_ thrumming strong in the Force between them. That distant, demanding urge that digs a heel into the small of his back and pushes him deeper even when he can feel the pressure and the tinge of something _more_ — 

And the moment it looks and feels and sounds like too much, too deep, too fast, Obi-Wan's shaky breath breaks into a low moan. "There," he murmurs, slightly hoarse, and rocks his hips up. " _Move_."  


It's easy to follow Obi-Wan's command and just _go_ , so Anakin starts up a rhythm as best he can, biting back a cry at the perfect shivery sensation accompanying each slide of his cock inside Obi-Wan. It's still surreal, somehow, no matter how many times it's been by now. Surreal, and intense in ways he'd barely scratched before when intimacy was sweetly flesh, but no more.

It had taken work convincing Obi-Wan to even try this — initially it had been just handjobs, then blowjobs, and he'd had to _work_ to get Obi-Wan to let him reciprocate even the blowjob — but it's been totally worth it. The past few months Anakin has learned a lot of new things about sex. Like how _languid_ Obi-Wan can be if Anakin pushes them into more than one round, or the blissful wash of desire-heat-love that saturates the bond when they're both too wrapped up in each other to bother separating their Force signatures in the slightest. It's _particularly_ rewarding, now, to see Obi-Wan making all of Anakin's favorite sorts of noises, and the way Obi-Wan's eyelids flutter and his gaze grows unfocused when he's really enjoying himself.

Anakin thrusts in again carefully, trying his best to start slow, just like Obi-Wan had explained, but it's not exactly _easy_ with the heel in his spine and another leg hooked around his thigh. Then Obi-Wan groans again — something deep and _visceral_ — and rolls his hips, but with his whole body, and Anakin falls forward, driving in deeper than intended. He manages to catch himself with his right arm, but Obi-Wan is already pulling him down into another kiss, all lips and tongue and urgent moans, and he forgets to be careful.

< Good — > "Ah! Yes, just —" < More — > "— _hah_ just keep… _moving_ ~"

"Ahh—” Anakin lets it slip out in spite of himself. It's still just as searingly hot as the first time to hear Obi-Wan's voice saying unashamedly _sexual_ things, and admitting he _wants_ Anakin to do illicit things to him, something Anakin hadn't known was a _possibility_ a year ago. He thrusts a little faster now, and Obi-Wan's groans prove the acceleration is welcome.

The mere fact that Obi-Wan is so comfortable with this now... well, Anakin has a warm fluffy feeling in his heart even as his erection twitches, drawing another noise from his Master. When they'd started, Obi-Wan had been constantly asking Anakin if he was okay and took far longer to let go and move freely with him. Not that it was _bad_ then — it had always been hot and good and _not enough_ , but with a few months of regular practice, Anakin thinks he's getting the hang of it.

Well, this part of it, anyway.

Come to think of it, they haven't ever _tried_ it the other way.

Anakin pauses.

"Master, do you not like it the other way?"

It's probably the moniker more than the question that makes Obi-Wan tense up all over again, and okay, Anakin might be _used to this_ but he inhales sharply anyway because what _else_ is he supposed to do when all of his senses are already sort of focused on the one part of him that just got sucked into a _vice_?

"… Other way?" Obi-Wan's voice is as breathy as Anakin feels, which is gratifying but doesn't answer his question.

He shifts, rocking his hips slightly in _just_ the way — Obi-Wan strangles a soft noise somewhere in the back of his throat and rolls up in response, opening his hips and easing the sensations for them both. Anakin sucks in enough air to elaborate, gesturing at the small space between the two of them with his left hand before he can form _words_. "You know… the _other_ way?"

Obi-Wan's expression is some bizarre mix of frustrated arousal, confusion, and eventual, hesitant understanding. "Anakin," Obi-Wan eventually manages, his tone a little strained, which would probably be more appreciated if Anakin's thoughts weren't already completely sidetracked from his own pleasure. "Could we… perhaps discuss this…”

" _No._ "

"— later? _Anakin_." A pointed roll of his hips follows.

" _No_ ," Anakin repeats with a choked back gasp. "'Later' means 'never', Ma— _Obi-Wan_ , and we never do this the other way and the _last time_ that happened—"

" _Anakin_."

"Do you not _like_ it the other way?" Desperation-hesitation-need seeps into the bond. Anakin ignores it. "Is it me?"

"It's not—"

"So you _do_ like it the other way?"

Something not unlike a restrained whine escapes Obi-Wan's clenched jaw before Anakin realizes his shifting has doubtlessly hit a tender spot again and he settles, instinctively. The bond thrums with a tangle of disparate emotions: lust, frustration, incredulity, and, again, hesitation. That last part makes Anakin narrow his eyes, very pointedly holding Obi-Wan's gaze as he waits for a response.

"… I … _do_ …" The careful words seem almost anticlimactic for how long it takes to drag them out of his Master. 

"… So it _is_ me?" Anakin concludes, immediately twisting to find the offending part of his posterior that is _apparently_ keeping Obi-Wan from happiness.

" _Anakin_!"

The near _squeak_ in Obi-Wan's voice snaps his attention back around immediately.

Obi-Wan draws a steadying breath. "… Are you _sure_ we cannot discuss this _later_?" His gaze travels pointedly from Anakin's, to where they remain connected, and back again with an incredulous lift of his eyebrows.

"No no no, this is very important, Master." Then, before Obi-Wan can get on his case about the title, he pulls out.

He's pretty sure the next scrap of thought that enters their bond is a curse, but he's also pretty sure it's in Mando'a so he's not positive. Fortunately, it's not long before Obi-Wan has managed to shove himself up on his hands and produce actual words in Basic again. "Is this _really_ —?”

" _Yes_."

Obi-Wan groans and, yes, that is _definitely_ Mando'a — this time out loud — but it's not a good enough distraction to pull Anakin away from the deep seated hesitation that has come to the fore of the bond again. Just as he starts to lean forward again, however, Obi-Wan puts a hand up between them and curtly reiterates, "It's not you. There is nothing wrong with _you_ —"

"Then why—?” Anakin blinks.

Another deep breath accompanies a shift of discomfort-uncertainty-hesitation in the bond before Obi-Wan exhales a rough, “I’m concerned that I'll enjoy it a little _too much_."

Oh. Well, then.

“Oh. Well, then.” Anakin starts to pull his pants the rest of the way off.  


“You want to try this _now_?”

“Live in the present, Master.”

* * *

It takes longer than Obi-Wan would like to convince Anakin on to his side, but at least it’s a battle he finally _wins_. The first one so far today, so he’ll take his victory, however temporary. Then, he’s just left with the image Anakin makes, sprawled naked on already rumpled sheets, half turned to watch him, muscles tense with anticipation— 

Anakin smirks and Obi-Wan knows some of his thoughts have wandered too far into their bond again. Instinct has him swat the back of Anakin’s thigh before he really thinks about it, which spices the connection a bit more than expected and _oh_ , this is going to be a longer night than he’d anticipated. Obi-Wan clears his throat and settles down behind his husband, ignoring, for now, Anakin’s low chuckle. Instead, he focuses on warming the lube as it coats his fingers and leaning down to press a kiss to Anakin’s left shoulder. 

“Let me know if it—”

“Hurts, I know.”

“ _Anakin_.”

“ _Obi-Wan_ ,” Anakin huffs, twisting back to catch and hold his gaze with something a little more demanding than anticipated. “You won’t hurt me.” The words are far too off-handed and simple for the trust buried so deeply in them — then Anakin wriggles his hips back against him insistently and Obi-Wan is momentarily sidetracked by the way the soft skin of Anakin’s ass feels against his own thigh. It’s tempting, but there’s a thought in the back of his head that Anakin has never tried this before and Obi-Wan could hurt him if they go too fast, which brings him sharply back to the task at hand. 

An hour later and three fingers deep, Anakin’s writhing proves _almost_ as distracting as his _mouth_.

Almost.

“ _Obi-Wan_ ,” Anakin twists with that insistent whine, doing his best to drive his hips down against the fingers working him open. On his side, with a leg hooked over Obi-Wan’s arm, however, he can’t _quite_ get the leverage. “How much _longer_.”

Obi-Wan swallows, banking the sharp spike of lust into the Force no matter the frustrated _mewl_ Anakin makes when he senses the action in their bond. “You’re ready when you’re _ready_ , Anakin.” He twists his wrist again, stretching deeper, pressing searchingly along inner walls in a way that quickly returns Anakin to desperate squirming. 

“I — aun— I _swear_ you never take this long,” Anakin somehow manages to argue, no matter the sheets bunched precariously in the hold of his mechano-arm hand. 

“Yes, well—” Obi-Wan exhales roughly when Anakin manages enough leverage to roll back against the all-too-eager erection he’s been nursing for too long already. The thrill of it ricochets between them before Obi-Wan can drag his shields into place long enough to maintain his sanity. Inhale calm. “I also had some _experience_ —”

“It can’t be _that_ different.”

There’s a pause.

“I’m…a little _large_ , Anakin.”

His words spawn a shiver and a wash of anticipation in the bond. “So? That’s supposed to be - ah! - a good thing, isn’t it?” Anakin huffs, breath hitching at the very end.

Obi-Wan swiftly readjusts his angle and presses. Firmly.

“Ma — _auhn_!” Anakin jerks in his hold, erection bobbing eagerly with his hips, dribbling his pleasure on the sheets. “What—” he pants, twisting to pin an intense blue-eyed gaze on man curled around him from behind. “What was _that_?”

Obi-Wan swallows thickly, “That,” he says, amazed his voice can stay so steady, “means you’re ready.”

“Thank the _Force_ ,” Anakin groans, flopping bonelessly to the bed. 

It’s more difficult than Obi-Wan truly anticipates to shift his hips once he removes his fingers. He’s spent so long focusing on _Anakin_ and _only Anakin_ that the sudden reminder of his own, heavy cock, already full and aching for the writhing creature in his arms, is a punch to the gut of his patience. Somehow, he manages to smear some last bit of the lube over his length before he loses track of the tube entirely, and whatever his plans, it’s going to have to be enough because Anakin is already wriggling back against him and the way the movement drags his thick length against the trail of lube in the cleft of Anakin’s ass, slick and soft and _firm_ all at once, is too much.

Obi-Wan groans, resisting the urge to hike up the leg looped over his arm and drive into the ass rocking back against him. Instead, he shifts back, pulling Anakin along to lean against him as he shimmies lower — just enough to guide his cock into place with minimal direction. The blunt head of it pressing at Anakin's slick hole shouldn't be as damningly erotic as it is, but somehow he can't tear his gaze away from the sight as he presses into the wet heat. Then Anakin gasps, hot and low, and rolls his hips down with an eager little cant that drags him in deeper no matter his agonizingly careful pace. 

" _Anak—_ "

"'m _fine_ ," Anakin pants, his flesh hand scrabbling along Obi-Wan's side as lust-want-desire floods the bond. "I'm _good_." Another twist of his hips and a flex that ripples beautifully down the clenched muscles of his abdomen, and he settles with a low, eager moan when the stretch forces him to pause. "Obi-Waaan, I—"

"Shh, shh, I know, Dear One, I know." The words slip out before Obi-Wan can _think_ , heart hammering as heat envelops him not _quite_ far enough, the stretch of inner walls already wet and welcoming and easing little by little. It's tempting. _So_ tempting. But he stops, pressing his forehead to the taut muscles of Anakin's shoulders, and draws a shaky breath. "I can wait. It's a lot, I know.” 

"No, I can —"

"Anakin, you have to _relax_ —" 

"But I—"

"Dear One—"

"You feel too _good_." 

Anakin rolls his hips with the desperate whine and the tense stretch of inner muscles melts into a heated slide so eager, Obi-Wan buries himself to the hilt in a second of thoughtless action. The sudden crash of < yesyesmore _there_ > somewhere in the torrent of their bond pushes him forward before Anakin can get anything more than prurient moans past his lips. 

"Just– there! Ah– Master, I–"

In a past life, maybe, he was a Jedi and a General and Councilor and entirely in control of himself and his desires, but right now he is only a man. A man whose husband is all too wanton in his pleasure and open with his desires to ever be denied. Anakin seems to light up in his embrace, rocking back into every careful thrust, and moaning like he's _paid to_ for more, for deeper, for _everything_.

Something in Obi-Wan breaks. 

He rolls over, pressing Anakin face first into the bed with one, hard drive. A low, hitching whine escapes with a sharp spike of arousal that jolts the bond even as he pulls out, but his hands are already grabbing slim hips and pulling them up before Anakin can turn his voice into anything coherent. Then he’s driving back into that hot, slick heat, and the stretch of it giving way to him is only an aphrodisiac instead of a concern anymore. 

Anakin trembles in his hold, face flushed and turned aside in a desperate bid to catch his breath against the sweet noises and eager pleas for “More! Yes! Right…there, Master! _Harder_ —” spilling endlessly from kiss-bruised lips. Dark blond hair tumbles forward in curly disarray, revealing the full curve of his well-muscled back, from where his shoulders hunch in an instinctive attempt to anchor their movements, down to where Obi-Wan thrusts in again and again. Each slap of skin to skin echoes in the small stone room.

It’s too much, too fast, and Obi-Wan can sense it more than he can feel it, but he can’t _stop_. Not with Anakin moving like _that_ , so eager and open with his pleasure. Not even when it overwhelms Anakin so suddenly — as Obi-Wan knew it would, but doesn’t let the sudden clench of muscles or the hoarse cry of his name stop him. It’s not enough. It will _never_ be enough. 

He keeps his pace as Anakin falls apart in his hands, fucking him long and hard and in every way Anakin begs for until the sheets are filthy and Anakin is little more than a breathless mess. Only then, when the thundering crash of Anakin’s climax diffuses around them until it feels like the Force itself glows with Anakin’s contentment, does Obi-Wan stop moving, still buried deep, one hand dropping to the bed for support as the world settles around them. It's a long moment, accented by heavy pants for breath and the pounding thud of his own pulse, before Obi-Wan can even manage to unclench his too-tight grip on Anakin's hip.

It earns him a muffled whimper and an immediate shift beneath him. "Don't—"

"Apologies, Dear One," Obi-Wan says, voice too gruff and cracking under the strain of keeping himself still within the slick, tempting heat. "Just…" He adjusts his weight carefully so as not to move either of them more than necessary and lays his hand more gently over the curve of an abused hip. "Let me…" There are going to be bruises there, he can already tell, along the reddened spots where he now presses cautiously in a far more gentle massage and tries to ignore the way his cock twitches with interest from the thought.

Anakin, of course, ignores nothing. He groans and bucks up — weakly, but urgent. "Don't _stop_ ," he breathes, voice half muffled by the sheets even as he adjusts for leverage to push his pleasantly sluggish muscles to work.

" _Ana—_ " The name is strangled somewhere in the back of Obi-Wan's throat when Anakin's wanton, insistent desire floods the bond with carnal heat in the same moment those devilish hips slide back against his own, and the too good, near painful _stretch_ of it all blurs somewhere between them. He moans, hot and low and desperate for more, against the sweat-slick skin of Anakin's back, hips bucking against all attempts at control.

"Mmm— that's… ah! That's _better_ ," Anakin all but _purrs_. He rocks back slowly, languid from his own release, and open in his search for Obi-Wan's as well. "Come _on_." The words are too damned _breathy_ for his demands, but Anakin only rolls his hips again, slowly, luxuriating in the slide. "I can still _feel_ you… you're still — nnnh! You feel so _good_ , Master…"

The slight _crack_ at the end of the title drags another unintended thrum of pure, unsated _lust_ searing through the bond so swiftly that Obi-Wan almost forgets it originated from him. The accompanying groan from beneath him proves its acceptance regardless, and then he's moving again. He tries to be slow and careful, and aware — so aware — of the sensitive slide, but Anakin keens soft encouragement and pushes back, bucking up and forcing him deeper each time and — Obi-Wan _groans_ as the desperate need for _more_ suffuses the Force around them until it's sinking into his skin.

He doesn't remember shifting his knees up, or leveraging himself up again, his weight on one hand as he drags Anakin's hips up with the other, but he must have, because he can see how Anakin _arches_ beneath him, a beautiful, hot mess writhing on his cock like it's the best experience of his _life_. Obi-Wan stops thinking. His grip tightens, the bond blows open into the torrent of want-need-desire already thick in the Force around them, and he thrusts deep and hard. 

Anakin bucks up again, unable to really move his hips from the mattress, but eager for every fierce drive that slams his ass into Obi-Wan's hips and Obi-Wan's dick headlong into his prostate over and over until he's leaking and hard all over again. The spike of arousal is obvious in the Force between them and Obi-Wan pushes _down_ , unthinkingly giving more friction to Anakin's overworked cock even as he chases his own release. The sound of skin against skin is almost drowned out by rambling, breathless encouragement until Anakin tightens around him all over again and this time, it's enough. Obi-Wan thrusts fast and hard through the start of his climax, spilling hot and deep into his husband until Anakin is _wet_ with it, tensing to stillness only when the final wave of his release crashes into the bond and meets Anakin's own shattering orgasm. 

Somehow, Obi-Wan manages to sink on to the bed instead of his husband, in spite of shot nerves, shaky muscles, and the desperate need to catch his breath. Anakin turns with his movement, loose-limbed and so bright in the Force, it's honestly exhausting to watch. Fortunately, he only manages a fantastically slurred, "If _that's_ 'too much', sign me _up_ ,” before winking out into a dead sleep. 

Obi-Wan, reasonably, follows.

### 18 BBY, 3rd Month: Coruscant, Senator Amidala’s Private Study

Padmé ends the call and leans back in her chair to stare at the ceiling of her study in silence. 

Around her, the muffled noises of Coruscant falling into night drift through the comfortable room as the dimming rays of a setting sun slowly give way to the neon noise of night. On her desk, her last cup of tea cools. Above, the swooping, smooth architecture of modern Coruscant twinkles with gilt outlines the designer probably considered subtle, ten years ago when it was redone. 

She sits up and taps a familiar code into the communicator hooked into her desk. 

It's not long before her sister's cheerful voice greets her with a surprised, "Padmé!"

"Sola." She smiles at the hologram — a little dodgy at this distance, but clearly portraying her sister shooing growing children from her skirts as she strides into another location, presumably private. "You look happy."

"And you look _exhausted_ ," her sister dryly counters, though there's still a chuckle in her voice. "I can't believe how long it's been — how _are_ you?"

Padmé's lips quirk up into something too tight-lipped to be a real smile, settling somewhere around tiredly amused instead. "Well, I suppose 'tired' is a good description. You're alone, right?"

Sola's humor dims to something suspicious before she answers. "Oh, what's happening _now_? I thought your men already handled the war."

It's a good thing she'd forgone finishing her drink, making air the only thing Padmé chokes on at the blunt commentary. " _Sola!_ "

Her sister, predictably, blinks innocently. "What?"

"They aren't _my men_ —"

"And what, you think just because we didn't see your name on that announcement that the rest of us are too removed from politics to understand how it works?" Sola huffs, though there's a fair bit of good-natured humor to her words as she waves off her sister's stuttering attempts to interrupt. "No, you told me the same thing _before_ about that cute young thing and we _all_ saw how he looked at you."

"Sola—"

"Admittedly, I wasn't expecting you to go for the Master too—"

"Honestly, the thing with Anakin was —"

"But after seeing the holos, I suppose I can't blame you."

" _Sola!_ " The tone of absolute _scandal_ is apparently what it takes to make the woman _stop_ long enough for Padmé to blurt out an exasperated, "I've heard entirely too much about Master Kenobi's _attributes_ in the last hour, _if you please_!"

Sola, finally, pauses, brow furrowed to project her confusion easily. "… Padmé…?"

"I remember _telling you_ when we broke up," Padmé says, fingers pinched to the bridge of her nose in a gesture that is becoming all too familiar.

"… I _do_ remember, Padmé," Sola sighs, gathering up her dress and settling into a sitting position as she sets her comm down nearby. "But I also recall hearing a lot about _both of them_ after the fact."

"We're _friends_ — of course I'm going to talk about them!"

Sola looks skeptical, to say the least. "I'm not our father, Padmé. I know you have to keep your secrets and —" She shakes her head with a sigh, one hand already waving off the topic. "Well, I like to think I'm still your sister, whatever the case. If you can't be married, you can't be married, but there's no need to dance around it."

Padmé gives a long-suffering groan and falls back in her chair. "We're not _anything_ , Sola."

"All right, all right, I understand—"

" _No_. You don't." It takes everything she can not to pinch the bridge of her nose once more. Instead, she contemplates the wet bar in the corner of the room. "Shiraya's _grace_ , Sola, Ani was… intense… and I _do_ love him, but it's been over a year since we were romantically involved."

Sola blinks. "… Over a year?"

"Mm."

"… And Master Kenobi?"

"A friend. _Only_ ever a friend," Padmé dryly reiterates. 

"Oh." At least her sister has the grace to look abashed. "I… I thought…since it was your bill…"

…

For once, the silence is too awkward to manage on her own. 

"… I mean, we are _definitely_ still friends _now_ …" Padmé hesitantly restarts, leaning forward towards the comm like she used to in her bed when they were young. "And that was _mostly_ my doing, but is it… is it _weird_ to still talk about—" Her voice quiets. " _Personal things_?"

"… 'Personal things'?"

Padmé barely resists burying her face in her hands, largely due to not wanting to clean up the mess later. "I swear I know almost as much about his sex life _now_ as when I was _in it_."

"Padmé!" Sola's squawk is _far_ too gleeful. She leans forward eagerly. "Oh you _must_ share—"

"I couldn't possibly—"

"Oh you're bubbling over with it, _spill_ already. Who's going to believe a word from _my_ mouth anyway?"

Padmé hesitates half a breath before the words leap from her mouth. “I just spent an hour discussing how apparently _large_ General Kenobi is and I _cannot_ — _Sola!_ "

For a minute, she's not sure her sister can even hear her over the shocked, all too pleased laughter, but then Sola holds up a hand in a bid for time. "Oh… oh _Padmé_ , sister _dear_ —" She turns away from the comm for a moment, fiddling around until she eventually turns back with a tissue to dab at her eyes. "Ah, by the goddess, you never do _anything_ by halves…"

"That's. Not. Helping." Padmé wants it to be more aggressive than it sounds, half-muttered from where she's laid her head in her hand, just conscious enough to keep it to her hair instead of her face.

Sola waves a hand, encouraging her closer to the camera again. "Oh, don't be so _prim_. I talk about that sort of thing with my girlfriends all the time."

"Yes, but you didn't _sleep_ with your girlfriends."

Sola gives a short, noncommittal shrug. "Well. We were all teenagers once, after all."

" _Sola_!"

"What? It's perfectly normal, you know." She pauses, and then gives an aborted sort of chuckle, as if remembering at the last second to be kind. "Well, I suppose you don't, do you? Always running so far ahead of the rest of us, I guess I'm not surprised you missed that phase.”

Surprisingly, even with the embarrassment coloring her cheeks, Padmé finds herself too curious — too _relieved_ — not to ease up from her uncomfortable curl with the sort of uncertain look she hasn't allowed herself to wear in years. "… You're not just… trying to get more gossip, are you?"

" _Sister!_ "

A _real_ smile forms then. "Fine. You're not just saying that to make me feel better?" 

It's more of a tease, than anything, and Sola takes it as such with an easy roll of her eyes. " _Yisena._ "

Padmé blinks.

Sola smirks. "And Oria."

Padmé's eyes widen sharply. " _No_!"

"Mmhmm." Her sister gives a low chuckle, shaking her head at Padmé's expression. "I don't think I've seen you that shocked since we were _children_."

"But you and Darred—"

"Oh that wasn't until college, you know that."

"Well, yes, I—" Padmé shifts, instinctively collecting herself as she tries to do the same with her thoughts. "I suppose I just… I remember when Yisena used to come over to study. I had no idea…"

"That was, somewhat, the point."

"But all I remember of Darred was how head over heels you were _months_ before we ever met him."

At this, Sola finally looks a little flustered herself. "Yes, well."

"… It just feels… _different_ , somehow?" Padmé tries once more. "From Anakin and I."

It earns her a rueful smirk. "Just because you're fortunate enough not remember my awful _pining_ over Oria…"

" _Pining_?"

Another dismissive wave of her hands settles Sola away from the camera again, leaning casually backwards. "I was _in love_ , Padmé. And you can ask Mother, I was right awful when she dumped me. I'm a little surprised you never found out _why_ I chose a university so far from Theed, but then, you've always been off and about."

"… Sola, I—"

"Ah, no, none of that now," her sister sharply interrupts. "The _important thing_ is Oria and Yisena hear just as much about Darred as I hear about _their_ spouses and you can bet it's the same with every other woman the Galaxy over." 

Padmé sighs, but can't help feeling mollified by Sola's reassurance that at least _some part_ of her life is relatively… _normal_.

" _Now_ ," Sola crisply announces before she can get lost in her thoughts once more. "Since I take it _General Skywalker_ is the extent of your circle of girlfriends at the moment, I _insist_ you find some wine and continue, because Shiraya help me, Sister, you cannot lead with General Kenobi's _considerable_ attributes and leave me hanging."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet Force Ghosts, WE MADE IT! （◎ー◎；）
> 
> So, the only part of this chapter that was even slightly planned ahead of time was the opening scene. Literally everything else was spur of the moment kind of “kriff it, I’ve been barely able to move in any way that’s not C3-PO, everyone gets porn!” ... so. yeah. I mean, when Anakin said he had to work for it, he really had to work for it. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> Anyway, we’ll actually get into the plot again next chapter. I actually have it all laid out and everything! :0
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **See Previous Timelines**
> 
> **18 BBY**
> 
>   * Treaty Negotiations between the Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems
>   * _Official End of The Clone Wars_
>   * _The 501st and 212th Battalions Are Officially Released to Yavin IV_  
>  _Anakin plays space taxi to pick them all up_
>   * _Discovery of Lost Jedi City in Yavin underground_
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin adopt a family from Kijimi  
>  Gain First Post-Order Padawan
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin rescue some slaves from Hutt space
> 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep until the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
> 



	15. In Which A Lot of Serious Plot Happens But At Least Obi-Wan Looks Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After several years on their own, The Team is used to things moving at a certain pace — the Jedi High Council is unprepared.
> 
> [Reference For Places In The Jedi Temple](https://i.stack.imgur.com/MKO85.jpg)
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “If I Had You” by Adam Lambert

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 2): Senator Amidala’s Second Residence

“Did _none_ of our clothes make it?” Anxiety bleeds into the Force bond even as Obi-Wan manages to keep it from his voice. Still, there’s a level of sheer exasperation that can’t be wholly covered up. 

“You _did_ leave them with Padmé,” Anakin unhelpfully points out, poking his head in from the kitchenette to watch the struggle.

“It’s not as though we had much of a _choice_ in the matter,” Obi-Wan mutters, half under his breath as he once again walks the length of the four closet door — all thrown open for his perusal. Behind him, their rucksacks are folded tidily on the bed, with their former contents meticulously sorted to clearly demonstrate the complete lack of traveling clothes in them. “Even our packed clothes are missing.”

“Oh, no?”

Anakin ducks back through the doorway seconds before a towel lands on the floor where he was standing, hardly muffling a scandalized laugh with his hand.

“ _Master!_ ”  


“This is _important_ , Anakin—”

“Improper use of the Force—”

“You are _hardly_ qualified to—”

“Within spitting distance of the _Temple_ —”

“They’ll think more poorly of us showing up in _designer fashion_ —” Obi-Wan makes it sound like fashion has somehow _personally insulted him_. Then he sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, and the anxiety slips out again. “Honestly, I know she’s trying to help, but this is the High Council, not fellow _Senators_ —”

“Wear the red one.”

Obi-Wan removes his hand just far enough to glare balefully at his husband. “The red one is _gaudy_.”

Anakin shrugs and tosses a quick, “It looks _good_ ,” over his shoulder as he steps back into the kitchenette.

Obi-Wan just…. sighs and runs his hands back through his hair as he takes stock of their clothing options again. It really is just ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous and entirely preventable, if he had only just _put his foot down_ when they landed. 

Of course, they all know that wasn’t going to happen — Padmé is an _aggressively_ good hostess — but it’s the _principle_ of the matter. It’s one thing to laze about in breezy, _organic_ house robes when they’re bustling about on their own in a well-appointed flat far away from prying eyes. It’s entirely another to expect them to peacock like _politicians_ in front of _Jedi Masters_ as if it’s going to do them any good. 

“I can _feel_ you fretting,” Anakin chimes suddenly from his left. 

He doesn’t start, because some part of him already knew Anakin had joined him. Some part of him _always_ knows where Anakin is these days, and he’s not exactly _upset_ about it. Still, the warm smile and the expectant way Anakin extends a cup of tea — like he’s being suave, knowing Obi-Wan will take it and enjoy it and thank him for it — is … all too disarming even after so many mornings of the same.

“… Thank you.”

“Mmhm.” The smugness doesn’t help.

By the time they finally get through breakfast, Anakin has moved at least two thirds of the closet into the air and over various pieces of furniture without lifting a finger and Obi-Wan can’t even find it in himself to chide the man for frivolous use of the Force. Sure, he’s aware that what were once small concessions are well out of control by now, but he also has to admit to some benefit from the constant use. For one thing, Anakin’s _comfort_ with handling the torrents that swirl within and around him has increased tenfold at least. For another, the casual display this morning has managed to unearth an outfit with enough layers and subdued hues that Obi-Wan doesn’t feel like some sort of strange piece of art wearing it.

Of course, Anakin still manages to convince him into a red, if dark, over-tunic, but at least they found something more autumnal for the cape. (Cloaks are, apparently, _verboten_ this season). Still, it’s tame in comparison to the rest of the options, and Anakin’s eager descriptions of how regal the color makes him look aren’t exactly easy to ignore. And anyway, Obi-Wan has learned by now which battles are worth fighting before lunch.

In this case, it’s wrangling Anakin into something that’s _not_ black. 

He’s _well aware_ of how good the man looks in black, of course. _Anakin_ , unfortunately, is just as aware. It’s just that Obi-Wan is also well aware of the way that comes off to the Order they are trying to re-friend, _especially_ when it involves them dealing with the _Sith Shrine_ apparently underfoot. And anyway, he’s been trying to convince Anakin into something that has white in it for the better part of a decade, and he’s not about to let this one chance slip away due to his own discomfort with color.

So, Anakin was able to coax him in to (subdued, darker) red among his usual browns and creams… but in return, he’s somehow convinced _Anakin_ into enough whites and dark browns that he looks nearly _Jedi_ again and, well, that feels like more of a victory than it probably should by now. 

“… Should I bother?” Anakin teases, halfway through dragging his bangs back towards the crown of his head.

Obi-Wan’s expression is wry, though the prod in their Force bond is playful. “Don’t make us late.”

“ _Me_? _You’re_ the one projecting all over the place because you can’t take your eyes off me.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Uh huh.” Anakin makes a short gesture with his free hand, deftly catching the hair tie that flies into it shortly after. “Sure, Master.”

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 2): The Jedi Temple Gardens

The Jedi Temple is a bastion of stillness amidst the frenetic pulse of Coruscanti life. Deep in the heart of the planet-spanning city, it stands apart with wide walkways and grand steps that usher in the feeling of empty space. To most, who would never walk its halls or speak with its inhabitants, it seems surreally _still_.

It’s a surprisingly salient thought for many of the Jedi passing by the open gardens that day — not that any one of them would have ever described Anakin Skywalker as anything close to “still,” but even Chosen Ones must change with time, it seems.

Anakin, himself, is well aware of this long before their feelings of surprise-curiosity-interest flow into the tranquil current of the Force as it rolls through the Temple. To him, the Force is anything but _still_. Even here, where the serenity of so many placid signatures calms its currents into something more sedate and welcoming, it still _flows._ It is that very movement that led him to this one, specific patch of life among durasteel and stone, after all.

It’s the same, meandering flow that keeps him so deeply enveloped by the Force that even the more senior masters find themselves lingering by the edge of the greenery. Not to watch the rare image of The Chosen One folded up in unmoving meditation for longer than five minutes, but to wonder over the incredibly diffuse Force signature that seems to be slowly enveloping the whole of the Temple. There is a passing glance that assures them of the Council’s involvement in whatever it is they’re witnessing, but it doesn’t ease the anxiety of watching such a powerful presence all but vanish into the Living Force. 

< What have I told you about scaring the masters? >

Obi-Wan spares only a brief glance over his shoulder as he strides into the gardens, nodding to the pockets of lingering Jedi and the padawans peering curiously around them. He can feel the faint sensation of laughter answer his teasing greeting and tries not to let too many of his own small worries drift into the bond. He knows all too well the reasons the other masters stand watch — it’s taken him years to adjust to the lessening sensation of _Anakin_ when he’s in so deep and even still it remains disconcerting. 

He doesn’t let it show, of course.

Across the bond — a distance so vast Obi-Wan lays a hand on Anakin’s shoulder just to remind himself of the man’s continued presence before him — the image of a long, dark hallway drifts into focus. It’s followed by the tug of a rushing stream, the weight of a waterfall, the warmth of sunlight and the rot of a tree trunk long since buried beneath the canopy. In the bond, it makes perfect sense. In the present, he squeezes the shoulder in his grip.

< You found it, then? >

The image of the rotting tree returns and, as Anakin’s presence in the Force slowly coalesces before him, the image refocuses on a particular stretch of formerly smooth bark, pockmarked by holes of larva. Several adult beetles and smaller, winged insects skitter out from the ridge. A second later, there’s only the log and the spindles of light that manage to get past the thick canopy above. The throb of life is unmistakable — from the trees as much as the insects and the hints of larger fauna beyond — but in the log, something stirs. 

Obi-Wan curbs the memory abruptly when realization hits. He knows what happens next and doesn’t want to startle in front of their unintended audience. The log might be decaying, but decay is a natural process. What the log _hides_ — the reason it died in the first place — however, still lingers inside: a perpetual state of thoughtless fear-anger-desperation drilled into a forever rotting corpse, whose vaguely humanoid appearance makes it all the more gruesome to face. 

“You’re making the face,” Anakin says before even opening his eyes. 

“I should think so.” Obi-Wan sighs and leans down to offer a hand up at the same time Anakin takes it. “I didn’t see anything of the sort, Anakin, are you sure?” The words sound far calmer than the concern-anxiety-bewilderment that crosses the bond.

“Of course I’m sure.” Anakin hauls himself up against Obi-Wan’s unmoving counterweight, thankful for the chance to stretch after so long. His expression twists into something doubtful almost immediately after the assurance leaves his lips, however. “Well. I’m not sure what I’m sure of, but I’m sure I’m sure of it?”

If it weren’t such a _typical_ description from the repertoire of post-Force-probe Anakin, Obi-Wan might be concerned. As it is, he levels a flat expression at the other man and pushes forward the thought-image-memory of rotting corpses swarming over one another, clawing forward by hand and foot alike, desperate for the door. Desperate for _them_ , and the Living Force that flows through them. ‘The Grinning Death,’ the vod had so fondly dubbed the fiasco and all associated, vaguely-humanoid horrors that came from it. 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Anakin sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face in an attempt to focus on _words_ over thought-feeling-being. 

“Take your time.”

It just leads to a stubborn shake of his head, but then, Anakin never was good at waiting. An amused glare tells Obi-Wan his thoughts haven’t gone unnoticed, but for the moment there are more pressing concerns. 

“It’s going to work, but we’ll have to move it,” Anakin finally summarizes, pulling away to stretch his arms overhead and bend movement back into stiff muscles. 

Obi-Wan instinctively tucks a hand into the small of Anakin's back to steady the limber movements. “And that’s to do with—?”

“No, that’s something else I’ll need your help with.” Anakin shakes his head out, pausing at angles to work the tension out. 

“I was hoping to avoid that,” Obi-Wan says in the tones of a man already resigned to his fate. “It took enough just to get approval for in-place adjustments.”

“What’s that? Could you be —” Anakin gasps dramatically. “— _irritated with the Council_?”

Obi-Wan’s exasperation is more seen than felt — the wide-open bond speaking as much of amusement as beleaguered annoyance. “Entirely your fault.”

“ _My_ fault?”

“Yes, you’ve utterly spoiled me for bureaucracy.” The deadpan would be more convincing without the obvious fondness saturating the bond. 

Anakin grins, bold and brash. “Well, I’m certainly not apologizing.” 

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 2): The Jedi Temple, Slopes of the Sacred Spire

“You look as though you could use a hand.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t have to turn to know the owner of the mechanized voice that greets them, but does so anyway with an easy smile for his old friend. “Master Plo — are you offering?”

The edges of Plo’s eyes crease in time with the rise of his antiox mask, returning the smile in the only way the Kel Dor can. “I most certainly am.”

“I have to admit, I’m a little surprised there haven’t been more Councilors watching over this entire endeavor,” Obi-Wan says as the other master draws even. They both turn their attention back to the first few, oddly designed obelisks against which several large pieces of embossed durasteel are being carefully set in place by the combined efforts of a small group of straining Knights and one particularly driven Chosen One. 

< Three feet right. >

Anakin shifts the hand he’s using to focus and the large metal brace shifts just the slightest bit to the right, as directed. One of the older Knights – a human woman with greying hair – sways from the effort needed to maintain her attention on the cladding, and a nearby Wookie steadies her without looking away from the group effort. Obi-Wan crosses his arms, mentally ticking another tally somewhere along their bond. 

“… Nevertheless, your timing is impeccable, Master Plo,” Obi-Wan murmurs, insisting another warning into the bond in spite of the gentle wave of reassurance he receives in turn. 

“I thought, perhaps, some extra manpower might be in order,” the Kel Dor says, tapping a familiar sort of bracer on his forearm twice in short succession.

If Obi-Wan didn’t know any better, he’d think the respected master was teasing him. He casts a look askance with a raised eyebrow, just as the familiar flare of Anakin’s Force Signature bursts into brilliant light. It’s nothing new to the Jedi straining to keep the cladding in place; they dig in and brace against one another as Anakin steadies the awkwardly shaped metal and secures it in place with a potent drill of raw strength in the Force.

Beside him, Plo Koon’s antiox mask hisses with his sharp intake of breath.

“Then again… perhaps you do not.”

It’s impossible to withhold the rush of pride-affection-awe that washes into the bond, so Obi-Wan doesn’t try. The brilliant corona of power lasts only the few seconds longer it takes for Anakin to double check their work so far, and then diffuses out into the surrounding Force like a warm breeze. It’s difficult to tell if the Jedi straighten from relief or the sudden energized presence surrounding them. 

"Master Plo."

The familiar voice is the last one Obi-Wan expected to hear in the Temple, and his sharp glance shows it. It's been a few years, however, so the recognition still takes a second. Plo, fortunately, does not suffer the same problem. 

"Ah, Wolffe. I see you were able to find your way without difficulty?"

"Of course, Sir." The war-torn trooper turns to greet Obi-Wan with a sharp nod. "General."

"Just Obi-Wan, Commander," Obi-Wan replies with a bemused, if still polite, smile.

Wolffe straightens to something more closely resembling parade rest and gives another nod in acceptance. "Just Wolffe, then, as well."

Well that's... Obi-Wan blinks, openly turning to Plo with a pair of raised eyebrows to convey his confusion.

The corners of Plo's eyes crease with amusement once more, but he turns to Wolffe first. "The rest are on their way, I take it?"

"Of course, Sir. The full squad should be here shortly. If we need more, I can round up the rest in another hour or so."

"We'll worry about that when the time comes," Plo says, turning with a gesture to the now resting Jedi, and the Chosen One who has since taken to Force-hauling the next piece to its assigned location on his own. "For now, it seems Skywalker could use a hand getting everything into place."

Obi-Wan sighs tiredly at the sight and rubs a hand over his eyes in a gesture that proves how commonplace Anakin's insistent drive remains, even several years after the war. "If we intend to keep pace, I imagine some construction equipment would go far."

Plo merely nods and directs Wolffe along with a small gesture in Anakin's direction. Wolffe seems to just barely restrain a sharp salute and pulls out a comm device on his way over — it's sound only, but the tones are so similar, he can only be speaking with another clone trooper. "The Council," Plo calmly continues, once his old commander is out of earshot, "was surprised to find you making so much progress already."

"Surprised," Obi-Wan echoes, flatly.

"I suspect many assumed there would be further documentation to review, plans to revise—"

"You approved the conversion?" It's more of a question than Obi-Wan wants it to be, just then.

"It has been several years," Plo says, turning back to catch Obi-Wan's gaze. "We have grown accustomed to moving at our own pace once more."

It should be more concerning, Obi-Wan briefly reflects, to know they had more or less shown up with half an idea and managed to incorporate a small gaggle of Jedi into their efforts before the Council even realized they were actively putting their plan into motion. At the very least, there should be some measure of… guilt? If not for circumventing the Council (no matter how unintentionally) then at the very least for acting as if on behalf of that authority without thorough approval. But then, Plo wouldn't be offering to help if they didn't actually intend to continue.

"Well, I am glad to see we're all back on the same timeline for this project, then." Honestly, he'd feel worse if Anakin's deep-rooted, protective concern hadn't been churning in the back of his mind since that one disconcerting meditation in the gardens. He's still not _entirely_ sure of what has been holding Anakin's attention ever since they returned, but between the realization in the shrine and the constant, uneasy contemplation that's followed… well, a speedy resolution is clearly best. Whatever their current situation, he knows for a fact how plainly _protective_ the two of them remain of the Order that fostered them. Of the people still within it.

For now, however, he puts the thought aside. There isn't much for him to do in the moment, outside of monitoring Anakin's progress, and he can manage that without the whole of his attention. More immediately, there is still the matter of — "Wolffe seems rather familiar with the Temple."

"I should hope so," Plo rumbles, glancing over to share the spark of fondness in his gaze. "One should always be comfortable in their home."

That's… Obi-Wan blinks, unprepared for that answer in a way that easily projects his surprise into the Force between them.

If Plo is taken aback by the open sharing, he doesn't show it. "You don't have such terrible ideas most of the time, you know."

The revered master is most _definitely_ teasing him. Obi-Wan can't help the low chuckle that spills out in answer. "I can hardly take credit for that. If Rex hadn't shown up on our doorstep—" He shakes his head lightly. "Well, we're lucky he did. Yavin wouldn't be the same without them."

"Indeed," the Kel Dor easily agrees. He turns then, and Obi-Wan turns with him to watch another pair of clones — in what appear to be mechanic jumpsuits — jog over with a brief wave as they pass Plo and head directly to where Wolffe is flagging them down. "The Temple would be a very different place without their presence."

Across the way, Anakin greets the newcomers with the same enthusiastic clasping of forearms any member of the vod would receive back home. The troopers seem a bit startled by the familiarity, but adjust quickly, returning the gesture in kind.

"How many?" Obi-Wan asks, smiling at the encounter and the way it settles some of the undercurrents of uncertainty in their bond.

"Not as many as you," Plo answers, still with the same hint of amusement in his voice. "I'm surprised you didn't hear."

Obi-Wan's expression is wry. "We don't get much in the way of news on Yavin. At least, not much from the Republic directly."

"Well," Plo begins with a contemplative hum of air through his mask, "the entire ordeal was in the headlines for weeks on Coruscant. The Reconciliation Council was… _quite_ busy, as the Senate, in particular, was rather concerned with the thought we might be building an army, for some reason. Can you imagine?"

All too well. Obi-Wan doesn't bother hiding his wince this new information brings. "Unfortunately, I believe I can. Before we left—"

"Yes, I remember our conversations." It's meant as relief and Obi-Wan takes it as such, nodding for the Councilor to continue. "We settled on offering positions in the Temple to any Trooper from Kamino," he summarizes. "Ultimately, the Senate wished for limitations on how many could be taken in for primary residence, how many could be… ‘outside contractors,’ how many we could sponsor for care." Plo makes a short gesture with his hand to indicate generally more, and, to Obi-Wan's complete surprise, carefully presses the feeling of … constrained success into the Force between them.

None of the other Jedi they have intermittently encountered in the past few years, nor any of the other Councilors, have shown anything but mild discomfort with the way both Anakin and Obi-Wan occasionally project emotion instead of passing it on. It's… both strangely disconcerting and… Obi-Wan can't quite put his finger on the sensation of appreciation-hope-surprise and thus carefully allows it to drift between them.

"Ah," says Plo, giving a ponderous nod, "Yes, I can see the benefit."

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 3): The Jedi Temple, Peak of the Sacred Spire, Meditation Balcony

“You move fast.” Mace’s voice is flat, but not wholly disapproving. At least, that’s the summary Obi-Wan pings Anakin with in the bond. 

Anakin begrudgingly tears himself away from the veritable well of energy that spirals upward — slow and steady — from the peak of the Sacred Spire at the heart of the Temple, and turns to face the Councilor. “We needed to,” he says, tone clipped and distracted _but not rude_ he forcibly reminds his husband with a deliberate prod through their bond. 

Obi-Wan casts a dry glance over Mace’s shoulder, but doesn’t counter the point.

Master Windu, however, merely quirks an eyebrow at him. “What about this situation implies that, Skywalker?”

Anakin pushes away from the rail bracketing the ancient stone that’s drawing the strong thrum of the Force up from the shrine and the planet beneath them. It’s easier to focus when it’s at his back and he can set his mind on the carvings on the balcony floor, the glow of repulsorlifts several stories above them, or the neutral-disgruntled expression of the stoic master staring him down. 

He thinks of the pressure and the tension and the memory of crawling corpses.

He says, “What about this situation makes you think we _shouldn’t_?”

Mace frowns at him, but stays silent a moment before answering. His gaze shifts from Anakin’s face — squinting slightly in that contemplative way of his Anakin never truly sorted out — to the peak and back again. Then he’s stepping closer, meeting Anakin at the rail and setting his hands on it, staring past to the few Jedi still lingering along the balcony across the way. 

“I find it difficult to believe the Four Masters who founded the Temple did not take the Sith Shrine and the strength of the Force Nexus into account when they first laid its foundations.” He pauses, staring warily down at what is only stone, but through which the Force flows undeniably strong. 

Anakin blinks slightly, tossing his master a look of hesitant surprise as he turns to follow Mace’s gaze, laying a hand on the rail once more. He receives a whisper of I-told-you-so from the bond, and swats it away on instinct. “I’m — _we’re_ not saying they didn’t,” he starts with, trying to sort through the complex sensation-memory-feel of the situation well enough to explain it to someone who can’t just reach into his head and understand. “I mean, _obviously_ they did? That’s what the Obelisks are for.”

Mace’s expression seems to stiffen, _somehow_. “ _Obviously_ ,” he echoes, deadpan as always.

How the hell is he supposed to —

“Obvious _to us_ , Dear One,” Obi-Wan sighs as he joins them on Mace’s other side, drawing all the stony attention to himself, however momentarily.

Oh.

There’s a part of Anakin that can’t help feeling a little giddy with this information — the notion that he understands something the Council _doesn’t_ is the stuff padawan dreams are made of — but the dark _thrum_ that resonates up the spire is enough to curb the thought. “Oh,” is all he can manage in light of this revelation. Mace’s expression is turning mildly baleful and Anakin hurriedly clears his throat. “Well, the problem isn’t that they didn’t know what they were doing, or anything, it’s just… I’m not sure everyone who came after remembered the plan?”

Mace’s brow furrows. “Explain.”

Well, that’s… Encouragement passes gently over him, and Anakin gestures to the structure surrounding them. “All of… _this_. It’s not original. The obelisks, yes, the Spire, obviously, but the shrine is older than both of them too.” A rapid-fire surge of surprise-curiosity courses throughout the bond. Knowing he’s caught Obi-Wan’s attention as well makes it easier, somehow, to meet the intense gaze of the Councilor beside him with a better explanation than he’s managed so far. 

“The actual vergence, it… sings? In a different… tone?” Anakin huffs partly to himself and partly at the skeptical expression directed at him, and shakes his head, turning away to focus on the Force alone, opening himself to the currents that flow thickly in the room. “The Force… spills over like a spring at the base of the spire. _In_ the base, really.” Yes, that’s better, clearer. The image of it takes shape in the thought-space between what he feels and the steady framework Obi-Wan slips into place as he talks. “The shrine came after, or because of it. I’m not… it’s difficult to tell, but it was second. The Spire came after that: a _result_ of twisting the natural flow —”

“You think they built the shrine to _change_ the vergence?” Mace abruptly cuts in.

Huh. Turns out, Master Windu _does_ listen to him. Occasionally. 

Anakin ignores the affectionate exasperation swatting him through the Force bond, but leans into the firm grasp of Obi-Wan’s signature that leads him back to himself and the conversation at hand. “Honestly, it’s difficult to tell without being able to see the source,” he admits, trying to refocus his vision on the here and now rather than the still-forming latticework being pieced together in the bond. “But a lot of the Sith architecture we’ve found has been all about manipulating things away from what they were and into something else—”  


“—usually horrible,” Obi-Wan helpful adds.

“—and generally unstable,” Anakin concludes. “Between the amount of overlapping _Jedi_ architecture shoving all the stuff it doesn’t want _back in_ and the presence of so many Force sensitives, it’s a little difficult to get a feel for how it’s _supposed_ to be just by itself.” Another shake of his head and he straightens away from the peak again, turning to face Mace directly. 

“What I _am_ sure of, though, is that we’re sitting on a giant pressure cooker of weirdly active Dark Side energies that have been leaking all over the place for _years_ , and _that_ , Master Windu, is why we need to move _fast_.” He catches Obi-Wan’s concerned gaze over Mace’s shoulder. “Because I can’t tell how long we have until it boils over, and the Dark Side energies are _far_ too active for me to think it won’t.”

For a moment, Mace falls into a contemplative silence. “… The approved works are supposed to be handling that pressure,” he eventually settles on. “According to the Archives the obelisks should be drawing the flows away. Your suggestions were for _improving_ that process.”

“Well, more like… redirecting it,” Anakin immediately corrects with a vague wave of his hand. “The energy’s not really making it there. And the obelisks haven’t exactly been _doing_ anything with it — or weren’t, anyway.”

“They probably expected the presence of Jedi Masters and the Temple itself to dissipate the vergence,” Obi-Wan helpfully adds from the other side. “Which has some merit, if they generally anticipated the intensity to lessen over time.”

“Right,” Anakin brightly concludes with a wide smile for Obi-Wan’s clarifications. “But that’s not what happened. The new architecture just keeps… shoving it all back down, and somehow the shrine or the Dark Side, or _something_ down there is still active.”

Mace frowns, shifting back from the rail to cross his arms in momentary, contemplative silence. Then, his gaze snaps to Anakin’s once more, holding it firmly. “I sense fear in you, Skywalker.”

It’s blunt and a little invasive, but Anakin feels only a short, incredulous humor twist his lips and he barks a laugh in spite of the cautious urging in the bond. “Well, _yeah_. Kriff — we should all be _terrified_ ,” Anakin says with a sharp wave of his hand around them. “All of this — everyone in the Temple, maybe further, has been exposed to some kind of creepy, malignant Dark Side manipulation for _years_ and I can’t even _tell_ how far it reaches or how long it’s been there. Even more than that, the only time we’ve seen something this _active_ was when there was something driving the alchemy. Droids or animals or corpses, or _something_. 

“So, yeah, that scares me. I’m terrified, and honestly, you should be too.”

“Know this, do you, from the Force alone?” 

Anakin’s startled jump nearly topples him over the small Grand Master standing just behind him. 

Yoda, of course, seems unconcerned over the ungainly scramble for the rail happening overhead, and merely looks up, waiting.

"I, er… mostly, yeah?" Anakin stumbles through, hastily pushing away from the rail and the spire and small green goblins, straightening his clothes as he goes. 

"Hmm."

"And, uh, the architecture itself, and Obi-Wan found some interesting bits in the mural outside of the shrine." Actually, now that he's talking about it… Anakin drops, cross-legged, to the floor with a thoughtful expression aimed entirely at the Grand Master of the Jedi Order, now much easier to chat with face to face. "You were here when a lot of this was added, weren't you?"

There's a strangled noise from somewhere behind him, which, honestly could belong to anyone at this point. Yoda, however, looks somewhere between thoughtful and _amused_. "Remembered that, you have?"

Anakin nods like it's even a real question. "So what's the verdict on the construction, then? Did anyone take the shrine into account when the Temple expanded?"

Rather than answer immediately, Yoda turns partly towards the spire, his cane tapping quietly along the floor. "Know the answer to that, you already do."

Years ago, Anakin knows, the answer would have irritated him. Even now, unencumbered by the need for decorum, there's a tug of frustration, but it feels detached, somehow. Like he's observing the emotion rather than experiencing it for himself. And so, he lifts his gaze up — towards the glow of repulsorlifts holding aloft grand statues of ancient masters with barely a whisper for the effort — and comes to his own conclusions. 

"Just like Yavin, then." Obi-Wan's presence at his side isn't surprising, though being joined on the floor is a little unanticipated. Anakin drops his attention from the statues he can't see to the comforting image of his husband settling on the floor in a pool of robes, for all the world like the Jedi Master he'll never be again. (But hotter. The red really does look good on him.) It's a fond thought and he receives a curl of affection for it. "Whoever created the containment mechanism are the only ones to have ever made the proper adjustments."

"Until now," Anakin says with a confident smile and a cheeky wink. 

"Changed the flow, your adjustments already have," Yoda notes, seemingly comfortable with their impromptu campfire discussion on the floor of the most sacred site in the Temple. 

"Yeah, it's a start—"

"We haven't heard anything about the Spire itself," Mace abruptly notes from somewhere over Anakin's shoulder. He makes no move to join their discussion circle, refusing outright to acknowledge the awkwardness of continuing otherwise, and plowing on regardless. "Yet you've been here multiple times in the last few days."

A fission of suspicion-discomfort-disapproval slips along the bond before he can pass it into the Force, but Obi-Wan doesn't comment on it. Anakin appreciates it, but gives a brief tug regardless. "Originally, I thought we'd have to redirect everything _away_ from the Spire."

The level of shock that slips into the Force is exact reason he hadn't wanted to bring it up in the first place. 

"Think differently, now, do you?" Yoda's inquiry is surprisingly quiet for the old master, his gaze carefully measured as it lands on him. 

Anakin's gaze flicks left. He doesn't need to catch Obi-Wan's expression anymore — he can feel the care-worry-concern-love-trust-confidence as it splashes through the bond — but it's… _nice_ all the same. Comforting, in ways he may never be able to fully describe. "… Yeah, I do."

"We need to address it at the source," Obi-Wan says for him, smiling gently in spite of the anxiety that spikes in the Force between them. 

"The Council was under the impression that was the purpose of the adjustments to the obelisks," Mace points out, his voice rather deceptively mild for the expression of stony exasperation aimed at the two of them. "Move everything from where it's been collecting in the shrine and disperse it along the built-in routes. That was the… ' _approved_ '… course of action."

Anakin can _feel_ the wince in their bond, but sends a tendril of appreciation for how Obi-Wan meets Mace's pointed commentary with the same, thoughtful calm he's maintained in the face of lost battles, certain death, and ridiculous requests for years now. "And that was the course of action we took."

"But it's only dealing with the situation _outside_ of the shrine," Anakin quickly adds, switching his gaze from his husband to gauge Yoda's reaction instead. 

"… _Into_ the shrine, you wish to go," the Grand Master summarizes, short fingers curling over the top of his walking stick. "Quick to judgement, swift in action, you remain."

"Master Yoda—"

"I won't go alone," Anakin interrupts, passing an apology into the bond and accepting the bundle of confusion-trust-support sent in return. It allows him to keep his gaze locked with the old master waiting intently for his elaboration. "I'm not even sure we'll be _able_ to get in — by myself _or_ together. There's so much… _intensity_ in the Force near the base, but that's also the reason I'm _worried_ — so yes, I want to get to the _actual_ source, and I want to get there _quickly_ — and, yes, I am…" 

He sighs and finally turns his attention back to Obi-Wan, cracking a smile almost on instinct. "… I’m afraid. But fear does not rule me." The bond surges with affection-pride-love, and Anakin continues, turning back to Yoda directly. “And I am not pushing for this out of fear _alone_. I can handle the shrine, Master Yoda. Let me _help_.”

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 4): Jedi Temple Basement, Doors of the Sith Shrine

Stone doors split for the second time in millennia. 

The shriek of repressed PAIN-FEAR-RAGE-TERROR blasts through the crack, whipping stale air through ancient corridors. Long forgotten dust spirals out like thousands of needles, catching, tugging, and clawing Jedi cloaks up into its desperate rush for freedom. Unhindered by the small clutch of Jedi struggling to hold their ground, the doors slide open wider, belching a dark miasma into the Force, onto the floor, into the air, slicing, searing, tearing, deeper, fiercer, _angrier_ —

Light sparks from nothing, billowing up in a brilliant flare that splits the aggressive current — forcing it to bend around the Jedi circled around and behind the blinding beacon of the Force and the Chosen One at its wick. 

Somewhere in the distance, Anakin feels himself squint through the tumult, searching deeper into the cavern for the true source, uncrowded and untainted and untwisted by the shrine. He knows the hand on his shoulder that steadies only his body and presses deeper. He feels the strain these extra moments of searching place on the mental shields melded with his own, but reaches out regardless. Obi-Wan's observations swim into his own, unimpeded by flesh with both of them sunk so deeply, and so suddenly, into the Force and its Light. 

A litany of < preparations helped — not enough — too intense — too active — > clashing with a torrent of < I can — we can — almost — something _else_ — something _more_ > until agreement forms somewhere in between. Behind them, powerful Force signatures re-align, steady against each other, and, unexpectedly, link together to bolster him/them. The distinct feeling of < I _told_ you > ripples through the bond. 

It's the last thought Anakin can wholly separate between them. 

The depths of the shrine will have to keep its mysteries for now. 

Concern-FEar-struggle-pAIn-terROR- _peace_. _calm_. flickers and flows in undulating swirls the moment he reaches into the Dark and _tugs_. The group’s panic is a sharp, metallic tang within him, encouraging the Dark like a squirming worm to a fish, but he is no hook: when the Dark comes, he opens himself to it. It's easy, always so _easy_ , to welcome the Force — any part of the Force — into and through himself, no matter how it rages and crackles and digs deep into him —

< Not alone. >

Anakin smiles.

< Never alone. >

Stone creaks and echoes from the force that slams the doors finally ajar and locks them there. The Dark _twists_ and Anakin twists _back_ , following all the little telltale ripples in the flow until it spirals up and away and spies something infinitely more attractive, thousands of feet above, resonating more clearly than the eager pull of the runes in the hall. 

< Not alone. >

One second to the next, the pressure vanishes. What was once a torrent sloshes, banks, and slows into moderated flow. Something Dark, still, deep, and simmering with the pain of an aggravated wound, but coursing like a river instead of a flood. It spills thickly from the opening, unpassable, but slipping harmlessly through rock and metal, leaving no trace on the Jedi along its path.

Anakin spins triumphantly, the corona of his power snapping shut with a suddenness and skill born of experience. 

"All done!"

Six pairs of exhausted, disbelieving, disapproving, _baleful_ eyes stare back. 

He blinks, halfway through a too-peppy "What?" when Obi-Wan's slight tilt into his side finally registers and his entire attention shifts to his husband instead. The swift loop of his arm around the man's waist is habit by now. Obi-Wan doesn't even try to push him away — for the sake of pride, or decorum, or who _knows_ what else — merely adjusting to allow him to take the extra weight.

"You should see a healer." Kit breaks the tense silence, stepping closer with a hand raised in concern.

Anakin's hold tightens and he's half a step back before he entirely registers the action. The Force is an eager thing still thrumming in his veins, active and not easily ignored for anything but Obi-Wan — who pushes soothing warmth and affection into the bond despite the abused shields folding in against them without the surge of power shoring them up.

"Thank you, Master Fisto," Obi-Wan is saying somewhere in the distance and right beside him, "but Anakin will handle it."

Pride-love-protection radiates unashamedly through the bond. Anakin just grins his way through the wry expression Obi-Wan sends him, already tending to shared mental defenses left battered in the wake of his work. 

The Nautolan master runs an assessing gaze over the pair of them before easing back with a nod. "So he will."

_Obviously_ he will, Anakin thinks with a huff, continuing his work as the Councilors — largely shielded from the majority of the mess — gather themselves separately. Obi-Wan stood _with_ him. He didn't have to, but Anakin had _asked_ for the anchor and the aid and his master had given it immediately and without question. So, _obviously_ , _Anakin_ will handle the fallout.

All told, Anakin probably could have managed it entirely on his own if they'd just waited longer for the adjustments in the obelisks to take hold, but it hadn't felt right. It wasn't _fast enough_ in a Temple full of younglings and friends and —

< Not alone. > Obi-Wan sends again, interrupting his thoughts with the fond, pointed reminder. 

< Never alone. > Anakin echoes back, immediately, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he draws them away from the still open doors. 

"It wasn't just _me_ , Anakin." Obi-Wan's voice is low, if tired, but he can hear the hint of a speech from his padawan years and freely passes the memory between them as he works on their shields. The hint of looking up, mesmerized by the sprawling Temple and the nearly mythological people swarming through it. One of his first lessons from a newly-minted master reciting basic tenets because he doesn't know what _else to say_. 

They are never without, because they have the Force, but even with the Force there are things a single Jedi cannot accomplish. When he was young, the Temple and the Order and the masters were a comforting notion. When he was old enough to really understand the weight of expectations and feel the tangle of uncertainty that shrouded so many of his interactions with Knights and Masters and Padawans alike, the idea of the Order fell hollow. 

"Anakin—"

"It's okay, Master," he cheerily interrupts, projecting only determination and contentment as he works on a particularly disastrous section of their shielding. The feeling-memory of the night they left Yavin rises up between them: an evening meal in their makeshift canteen, the vod split over rows of long tables with younglings, siblings, parents, the lost and the rescued peppered between them. 

Obi-Wan's expression turns amused-fond-charmed and he straightens enough to lay a hand to the far side of Anakin's head, bringing them together in a brief — usually armored — show of camaraderie ingrained from the hundreds of men they now call family. 

* * *

"— just not comfortable with only a single source of information concerning all of this," Master Tiin presses as they finally breach the last steps leading out of the unseen depths of the Temple basement. 

"It's not just _one_ source," Anakin is already arguing back before Obi-Wan can get a word in edgewise. 

"The two of you might as well be _one source_ ," Stass mutters, not quite under her breath. Kit, at her side, doesn't even bother to stifle a chuckle.

Anakin, predictably, puffs up proudly and Obi-Wan quickly slips around and out of the way before he gets caught in the midst of the preening. " _Obviously_ Master and I are one in the Force," Anakin leads with, and he's not _wrong_ exactly, but Obi-Wan will probably never recover from hearing it bandied around so eagerly. "But that's not what I meant. We've been doing this for _years_ —"

"Yes. _Years_ , they have," Yoda hums from somewhere near waist height as he hovers by on his chair. " _Trust_ in their knowledge, we should."

"Yeah!" 

Obi-Wan barely manages to keep a hand from his face.

"Wait — _hey!_ I _just_ —"

"We would welcome anyone wishing to validate our previous findings," Obi-Wan interrupts before Anakin can get too flustered.

A look of genuine surprise passes lightly between the gathered Councilors, but it's Shaak Ti that finally puts any of it to words. "You would take a Jedi observer back with you?"

It's a careful phrasing and Obi-Wan is quick to check the bond for spikes of insult. Surprisingly, the reminder of their separation from the Order lands without fanfare on Anakin's end of the bond. Obi-Wan glances over and is met with an easy smile and loose, unconcerned shrug. Well, then. Apparently this trip has gone better than he thought.

"If someone is willing to join us, yes," he says simply. After a moment's thought, he quickly adds, "Although a Healer, in particular, would be most welcome."

"You have pupils in need of care?" Plo asks — the first words he's spoken in nearly the entire hour they've spent climbing out of the twisting halls beneath the Temple proper.

"Ah, not as such, no," Obi-Wan quickly reassures, waving aside possible insult along with the genuine concern he knows sparked the question. "Anakin and I can handle most other topics, but neither of us has trained as a Healer."

"An _observer_ does not _teach_ —"

"Such a thing has never—"

"Of course, we would be honored to accept anyone who wishes to visit," Obi-Wan continues over the shock and alarm, bringing a hand up to brush contemplatively over his beard as he speaks. "Although. They may want to bring their own food."

"Don't listen to him," Anakin says as looks of unstated concern pass between the Councilors, "my cooking is _excellent_. Ask any Trooper!"

"Anakin, you know very well—"

" _Obi-Wan Kenobi_!"

The sudden, reprimanding call freezes him in his tracks. Barely three feet from the top of the stairs, Jocasta Nu stands commandingly with her arms crossed, every inch of her small frame drawn up indignantly. A single datapad taps a demanding metronome against the top of her robes. 

Obi-Wan clears his throat and attempts a disarming smile. "Ah, Master Nu—"

"Don't you _dare_ 'Master Nu' me. You've been here _how many days_?"

"I—"

" _How_ many?"

Anakin's amusement isn't helping. 

"… Four, Chief Librarian," Obi-Wan sighs, knowing what's coming and stepping forward to accept his fate.

The remaining Council members give a wide berth, and Anakin — the _coward_ — dodges back with them. 

"And does this _look_ like the Archives?" Jocasta demands with all the tones of an instructor fed up by the antics of a wayward pupil.

Obi-Wan shoots his husband a betrayed glare before facing the old master directly with a low bow. "My apologies, Master Nu. As you can see, my time has been _entirely_ spoken for." If he's going down, he'll take the entire Council with him, damnit. "Nevertheless, you have my sincere apologies for not visiting the Archives — and you — sooner."

Her eyes flick accusingly over the entire lot, then return sharply to him. "I have enough questions on the _rest_ of your reports before we even _begin_ on the stack likely coming from whatever it is you've been doing to the Temple."

"The _rest_?" Tiin echoes under his breath, attention moving to Anakin only a couple of feet to his side. 

Anakin grins. "If you _really_ want more evidence," he answers just as quietly, so as to not draw the Librarian's scathing attention from where she continues to harangue his husband across the way, "you should just look it up. Master's been sending our reports back every chance he gets for years."

* * *

Plo watches the twin conversations from the steps, silently noting the way the former Jedi mirror each other, even separated. It should be worrisome, he thinks, this level of connection, but then, hasn't it always been like that between them? Of course, now it's difficult to miss the pride-love-attachment radiating into the Force as Anakin speaks, shameless in his emotions and the display of them. But it's not just Anakin easing emotion into the Force like it's a conversation, either. 

However _alien_ their arrangement, their earlier success speaks volumes in its favor.

He glances contemplatively at Yoda, who has drifted aside amidst their split, watching in the same way he watches: careful and without commentary. The Grand Master has spent most of their visit watching and Plo can't help but wonder if the same thoughts pass through him. If he isn't feeling a little… outpaced by his Lineage these days. 

Yoda has been a staple of the Order nearly as long as its return to Coruscant and has surely seen a lot in his time. Before the Clone Wars, his suggestions were cautious, leaning on those many years of experience and tending away from suggestions too far afield, let alone _against_ general tenets. Of course, _during_ the war, things changed and now … Plo wonders if Yoda's relative silence on the matter of his Lineage, and all the upheaval they've wrought, is one of pensively waiting for the other shoe to drop or… something more accepting. 

If, like Plo, he sees changing tides and thinks… _this could work._

Well, if Yoda is still willing to watch and wait, then perhaps his own, lingering concerns of the past several years can be finally laid to rest. "Skywalker."

Anakin glances over from his debate with Stass and Tiin, head tilted and expression open. Nothing like the creature of hollowed-out light that carved out the flow and the weight of the Force's currents so it bent with his direction and flowed, diffuse, and de-pressured, into the field of obelisks above. Plo steps closer, into the small cluster of Jedi.

"… Ahsoka," he leads with, watching Anakin's openness immediately shutter with protectiveness. "How has she been…" Since she left. Since _we_ left _her_. Since the war. "… these past few years?”

There’s a moment of hesitation, but it soon melts into a broad smile, warmth and affection spreading into the Force around them. “I’m sure she’d love to hear from you, Master Plo.” Anakin accompanies his words with a brief search of his pockets, hastily pulling a commlink from his belt. “Here.”

“… If you’re sure.” It’s far more than Plo really anticipated — which is _typical_ of his interactions with Anakin, really — so his reaction is slow, but the commlink is thrust into his outstretched hand regardless.

“I mean, you can’t _keep it_ but that’ll get you to Yavin at least,” Anakin continues with a triumphant grin. For what, Plo isn’t sure, but the eager dance of _winning_ is all but tangible in the air around them. 

He closes his hand, slowly, looking down at the commlink and then back to the man who passed it to him, and, cautiously, radiates his gratitude. “Thank you.”

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month: Castle Serenno, Count's Private Balcony

> Dark wind and dead ground. 
> 
> He struggles instinctively against it. Raises a hand that cannot feel against a wind that whips through him. Against the heat and the tear of dust and debris. Against a poison that drifts low over the shattered city blown apart from within.

_There's a word. A voice. A desperate, quiet, mantra rising against the frantic buzz in his head._

> Emptiness sweeps in. Silent and oppressive. Around him, there is nothing; only husks. A gaping maw of nothing where the thrum of life _should be_. Where it once was. 
> 
> A sun rises; hulking, deeply red, and cracked open, pouring its heat and life and sluggish, unending misery into the ruins below.
> 
> A sun sets; shimmering unknown into the horizon, masking a corona of flaring, desperate light with its dying, dimming husk–

" _Ozyly-esehembo_!"

Sifo-Dyas gasps against the heat that doesn't press him down and the thick feeling of dust building in lungs that were never blocked. The voice returns. Something quick and low, peppered with partial phrases he recognizes and more he doesn't, but it soothes the edges of fractured vision and messy thought until the strain leaves his system, and reality lurches breathlessly into focus.

Sev'rance frowns over him, the glow of her eyes for a moment too bright to meet. Then, something shifts and the glow dims – refocusing, Sifo-Dyas remembers, though memory is still a slow, sluggish retrieval at best. It's not her _eyes_ , it's the Force flowing through her, drifting away when she removes her hand from his face and sweeps a critical gaze down his form. 

She says something, watching confusion crinkle his brow before consciously starting over, this time in Basic. "You are here, Sifo-Dyas," she murmurs, low and urgent and soothing. "You are with me, and we are here. We rest together. We see together. You do not walk alone."

"It was… different," he finally manages, the words cracking in his throat. "Before."

Her lips twitch into a tight smirk. "You do not go easily, Ozyly-esehembo. I could not catch you." 

She glances up sharply, and the next thing he knows, there's another presence beside him — dark and familiar and pressing cool reassurance and unyielding strength into his Force signature. A groan of pure relief escapes before he can properly withhold it, and he grasps for the hand he knows will be there, pulling him up from the ground. Sev'rance carefully slips away as Dooku settles him solidly into a sitting position. It's preferable to the ground, but it doesn't make the lingering weakness any easier to manage. 

"Do you need—?”

"It's over," Sifo-Dyas says, nodding faintly in Sev'rance's direction. "She pulled me back."

"What happened?" 

"It struck suddenly." Sev'rance reports, prompt and clear of any lingering uncertainty. "I sent for you immediately."

Something more passes between Master and Apprentice, but Sifo-Dyas cannot give it his attention. He turns into the presence securing him in the Force and the form bracing him in the world, openly seeking the support to keep himself grounded. By the time the trembling subsides, Dooku's cloak covers him and his joints protest the sudden movement. 

"Is it getting worse?" 

Sifo-Dyas appreciates the quiet inquiry more than he can put to words. No demands for information. No ritualistic chants. No press to share the silent, trembling terror welling deep in his soul. Just the intimate thrum of a powerful Force signature entwined with his own and the steady hold keeping him still until he can right his senses and gather his frayed mind.

"Not yet." He draws a slow breath and looks up into the gathering night. "It will."

"It's been years since a vision hit you that strongly." Dooku's voice is remarkably cold for the protective-possessive heat that flashes through his signature with the words. 

"Mm." An empty chuckle escapes before Sifo-Dyas can think to withhold it. "I feel bad for Sev'rance. I think I scared the Basic out of her."

"For the moment, that seems to have been a good thing," Dooku dryly comments, though his hold momentarily tightens.

"Don't act like you won't be interrogating her the first chance you get." It earns him a good-natured huff, and the silence that follows is a little less oppressive. Sifo-Dyas turns his attention hesitantly inward once more, opening himself oh-so-carefully to the memory swiftly bundled away, sealed off, and still pulsing with dark omens. It's just a flash, but it's enough to solidify his hunch. "There will be more. A lot more."

"… Come," Dooku suggests like it's an answer. "Let's get to bed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the forced hiatus, I was a little concerned it would be more difficult to get back into the swing of things! In the end, though, this chapter actually came together pretty easily. ＿φ(°-°=) 
> 
> My main concern is just clarity, so feel free to mention if something seemed confusing — given how much of this has been from Anakin’s perspective this time, I wouldn’t be surprised if it comes out a little… jumbled if you don’t already know what’s going on lol. 
> 
> Also, uh… my hand slipped and we got a bonus Sifo/Dooku scene. Whoops? ~~Sorry, not sorry.~~
> 
> See you in the next chapter for _politics_ , Palpatine being skeevy, no one being able to figure out which general is the arm candy, and Obi-Wan wanting to melt into the floor /o/
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **See Previous Timelines**
> 
> **18 BBY**
> 
>   * Treaty Negotiations between the Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems
>   * Official End of The Clone Wars
>   * The 501st and 212th Battalions Are Officially Released to Yavin IV  
>  Anakin plays space taxi to pick them all up
>   * Discovery of Lost Jedi City in Yavin underground
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin adopt a family from Kijimi  
>  Gain First Post-Order Padawan
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin rescue some slaves from Hutt space
> 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep until the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
> 



	16. In Which No One Is Sure Which Half of The Team is the Arm Candy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé plays dress-up; Obi-Wan doesn’t appreciate it, but Anakin does. A lot. Palpatine tries not to twitch while creepy, but it’s difficult. Dooku admits Sev’rance is adopted, immediately regrets inducting into Disaster Lineage. 
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “Trust in Me” from The Jungle Book (animated)

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 5): Outer Rim Development and Economic Outreach Conference

“Is that… _General Skywalker_?”

“The Hero Without Fear?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it,” the Arkanian Senator insists with a raise of his glass towards the elaborately decorated entrance and the pair of equally elaborately-decorated men idling their way through it.

The human senator tilts her head, causing the dozens of glittering gems in her hair to cast soft rainbows over the soft teal of her robes. “And his husband, by the looks of it.” Several pockets of dignitaries attempt to keep their glances more subtle, but it’s difficult to miss the attention the pair receives.

“I heard they were on Coruscant, but I didn’t expect them to actually show _here_.”

“Who would?”

The Arkanian gives a self-important sniff. “Obviously _someone_ expected it, or there wouldn’t have been rumors.” Attention entirely on the pair of humans garnering much of the room’s scrutiny, he misses his companion’s dry stare.

“Surely they have no need of _two_ representatives?” she nevertheless continues.

It earns her a curt shake of the head. “Don’t be daft, Khola. Everyone knows Skywalker claimed that moon at the end of the war. It would just be _rude_ to leave his husband behind.”

Khola’s dark gaze turns skeptical. “I’m not so sure,” she murmurs over the rim of a long-stemmed glass. “From what I recall, General Kenobi was the one known for sweet-talking planetary governments.”

One of four clawed fingers flicks off the stem of her colleague’s glass — a dismissive gesture, if only on Arkania. “And _you’ve_ met them, have you? Let me do you a favor and explain it for you, my dear. General Skywalker was _well_ known for his aggressive leadership in the war. There is no universe in which that man conquers a planet — moon, what have you — and lets someone _else_ rule it.”

Khola presses her lips together and draws a contemplative sip of wine as she watches the two men make their way through the small smattering of press huddled near the entrance and into the waiting welcome of the Senator from Alderaan. Curious. “General Kenobi was well-known for being the more politically savvy of that duo,” she eventually murmurs. “From what _I_ heard, he was essentially running Skywalker’s troops anyway.”

Caraya’s soul, thinks Khola, how much more obvious can it _be_? Skywalker’s loose white tunic is basically just fabric pinned on to him at the shoulders and elbows, and the front splits in a low V over his tanned chest, hiding nothing of powerful musculature or the pristinely burnished durasteel arm beneath. She could have mistaken him for a courtesan if he hadn’t been wearing pants.

The Arkanian Senator raises his eyebrows in a way reminiscent of other races when they roll their eyes, though given the opaque, white nature of his own, it’s difficult to know for sure. “ _Precisely_ , dear Khola. Is that not the _role_ of the second in command throughout galactic history? It should be clear enough from the way he’s _dressed_.”

She has to admit her colleague has a point. Kenobi’s knee-length robe is all expensive gold silk, and it’s tailored _very_ tightly to his entire torso. The shimmer has been tastefully offset by black trousers and a long-sleeved over-tunic cut above the chest, both of which are also skintight. Still…

“Skywalker’s hair is _in braids_ ,” Khola flatly observes, as the man in question turns enough to reveal three rows of them knit tightly into his scalp on the right side of his face. The rest of his hair is loose, falling like a cascade over the slim silver band that crosses his forehead.

“Plenty of warrior cultures braid their hair.”

Khola arches an eyebrow over her glass, lips quirked in subtle amusement. “Since when is the Jedi Order a warrior culture?”

Another, judgmental huff from the Arkanian Senator. “Since _the war_?”

* * *

“Master, I think people are staring at you,” Anakin announces into the gap between Bail’s low explanation of events and Obi-Wan’s contemplative reply.

Obi-Wan turns with a rather amused expression brightly mirrored in the bond and says, “Are you certain they are not looking at _you_ , Dear One?”

And, oh, that’s _pleasant_ , even if patently untrue. Anakin clears his throat against the pleased heat in his cheeks. “ _I_ look like I was tackled by a bunch of handmaidens and narrowly escaped without a _headdress_. _You_ look—”

“Stop complaining about the _excellent_ work Moteé did with your hair, Anakin.”

“Easy for you to say, _your_ hair isn’t — wait, you _like_ it?”

Obi-Wan’s expression is dry, if still openly fond. “I’ve said as much at least three times, Anakin.”

“Yeah, but two of those times— ”

“I’m saying it again.”

Anakin huffs. “Okay. Well. I — I still think you look better,” he half-mutters, prodding deliberately at his master’s exposed shoulder for perhaps the tenth time since combing forces with Padmé to get Obi-Wan _into_ the outfit. “Don’t pretend like I’m not used to watching people ogle you at official functions; I can _tell_ these things.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head and a slip of disbelieving humor drifts into the bond. “You’re the epitome of ‘dashing young man’ and you expect me to think people are staring at _me_ — ”

“Gentlemen, please, you’re both pretty,” Bail cuts in with a hand to each shoulder. “And as enjoyable as it is to watch you send half the delegations here into fits by arguing over it, I just spotted the Timoran contingent.”

“… Who?” Anakin blinks.

“Where,” Obi-Wan corrects with a wry twist of his lips.

* * *

Anakin, of course, abandons them utterly before Bail can corral the hesitant group of less glamorously dressed representatives into the small patch of space he’s carved out by one of the serving tables. Obi-Wan can’t say he’s _surprised_ to be so abandoned, but also can’t help swatting at Anakin in the bond for it. Fortunately, it seems to be taking the three humans presented as the “Timoran Contingent” a little longer to warm up to Bail’s introductions, so he hasn’t managed to seem rude to the first people he’ll meet that evening.

“Ah, General Kenobi, it’s, uh — a pleasure?” The man in a sharply cut grey suit begins, dark gaze flitting briefly to Bail as if uncertain what else is required of him.

Obi-Wan politely ignores the less subtle, encouraging hand gestures from the Senator of Alderaan, and offers a genial smile. “Please, there hasn’t been a war in years — just Kenobi is fine, Senator…?”

“Oh! Oh, where are my manners? Yes, um, Gly. Well, ‘Senator Zamon’, but as you say, ‘just Gly is fine’.”

Another hesitation, this time accompanied by an awkward glance about the room, and Bail mercifully intervenes. “And your Secretary of Infrastructure, I believe? Ms. Sonat?”

The short, broad woman almost a head shorter than her compatriots bustles around to drag one of Obi-Wan’s hands into both of hers. “Indeed a pleasure!” she enthusiastically greets, her grip surprisingly firm. “Clarra Sonat. I must say, Gly didn’t mention getting to meet _war heroes_ when he tried to talk me into this to-do.”

Oh. Obi-Wan shoots Bail a wry look and accepts her handshake with a second hand over hers and a short bow. “I understand the sentiment. If I’d known there would be representatives of planetary cabinets I surely would have been easier to convince—”

“You should know we wouldn’t have _insisted_ if it were just Senatorial subcommittees,” Bail quips from his side with a knowing look.

“ _Do_ I know that?” Obi-Wan’s dry commentary earns a short chuckle from his longtime friend and seems to ease the mood somewhat with the three other humans, only two of which now stand awkwardly like they don’t know what do with themselves. “Now, Timora, if I recall, is a rather isolated planet. You _must_ tell me how you manage your internal infrastructure without the supplemental support of Core manufacturing. Is it all local expertise?”

Ms. Sonat’s eyes widen considerably, and in the next moment she’s forgotten the hesitation of her peers and pulled a datapad out of … well , somewhere in her expansive, shimmering robes, and tucks up close such that she can share its contents with Obi-Wan directly. “Actually, that’s part of what I’ve been discussing with Gl- er, Senator Zamon. Do you have a few minutes? I would love for them to hear a third party opinion on a few proposals and if I recall, you have a bit of a reputation, Mr. Kenobi.”

* * *

“Anakin, my boy — You made it! How wonderful.”

Anakin’s head whips around on long-buried instinct, too distracted by the throng of people making eyes at his husband to even notice his old friend’s approach. “Chancellor!” Immediately, his mood lifts, even though it hadn’t _really_ needed help. Social events still aren’t really his thing, per se, but watching Obi-Wan in his element has its perks. Nevertheless, he closes the short distance eagerly. “I didn’t expect to see you—”

“Didn’t _expect_ me? At my own event?” There’s a twinkle in the old man’s eye, though his expression falls a bit — in jest, Anakin’s sure, even if the Chancellor has always been notoriously difficult to read.

“ _Your_ event?” Anakin parrots in open confusion.

Palpatine’s expression brightens and he spreads his arms broadly, causing opulent, burgundy robes to billow with the movement. “Of course, of course! _You_ might have ended the war, but the rest of us have a… bit of cleaning up to do, you know.”

Somehow, even several years separated, Anakin can’t quite keep the pleased flush from his skin in wake of the obvious flattery. “Well, I can’t take all the credit.” He grins proudly and shifts his weight so he can nod more easily over to where Obi-Wan stands in an ever-shifting cluster of sumptuously dressed individuals. “Obi-Wan did most of the work. Anyway, it’s not like—” His pride must have leaked over at some point, because it earns him a curious prod in the bond. Anakin glances over again on instinct, losing track of his words almost immediately.

A polite cough drags him back, but, thankfully, the Chancellor doesn’t seem all that aggrieved by his wandering attention. “You seem… preoccupied,” the old man notes, somewhere between amused and concerned.

The thought of whether or not he’ll ever stop feeling like an awkward teen around Palpatine drifts by on the heat of embarrassment — and is summarily shoved into the Force. Anakin clears his throat. “Ah well, you’ve… never been married, have you, Chancellor?”

Sheev’s eyebrows lift a bit with the question, creasing his brow in a way vaguely similar to consternation. “No,” he says, folding his hands over each other as he speaks. “I’ve never really found the time, I’m afraid. Too much to do, and not enough people willing to put up with… well, that sort of arrangement.” His smile seems a little strained, though his presence in the Force hasn’t shifted.

The skill of a politician, Anakin thinks, habitually setting his hand to the hilt at his waist and openly trying to reign in all the love-affection-gratitude otherwise radiating towards his husband. “I’m not sure I could have made that sacrifice,” he bluntly answers. “Obi-Wan is the best part of my life.”

“My, how times change, hm?” The Chancellor chuckles as the furrow in his brow smooths. “Was it not just weeks before the Treaty you confided in me about all the ways he seemed to be holding you ba— ah, where are my manners? I’m sure all that’s been settled.”

“That’s, uh—” This time, it’s a flash of guilt that draws another, more concerned brush through the bond. Anakin hastily bats it away, rolling love and affection perhaps a bit too eagerly between them. He covers a cough with his mechano-hand, disconcerted all over again from having let Padmé convince him into putting it on display at all. “A misunderstanding.” There’s no real way to withhold the cringe that follows, no matter how much shame-uncertainty-guilt he shoves hastily into the Force. “Really, I was… a bit of an idiot.”

“Truly?” Palpatine looks doubtful at best, but raises a hand with a gentle wave. “Ah, I won’t pry. You know you can always come to me if you need to.”

“And I _do_ appreciate that, Chancellor, I—”

“In any event, the last thing you need is another judgmental old fool telling you off for your…. What do the Jedi call it? ‘Attachments’?”

A short laugh escapes Anakin in spite of himself. “Yeah. Something like that.” He shakes his head and glances fondly towards the unmentioned topic of their conversation still glimmering like a gem in the warm light of the large, open floor bustling with color and life.

Even amidst all the glitz and glamor of visiting dignitaries and milling senators, Obi-Wan stands out like a beacon. Anakin can still feel the wavering, too-alert bundle of utter disconcertedness lingering on Obi-Wan’s end of the bond like a film that no amount of compliments will ever completely disperse. He knows; he’s tried for over an hour already. Obi-Wan hadn’t exactly taken to the idea of ‘parading around’ in gold silk cut _precisely_ to his dimensions, had stared balefully through the large shoulder cutouts of the black over-tunic, and dryly remarked on the very _possibility_ of underwear when presented with the matching trousers. The gilded sandals were nearly a dealbreaker all on their own, and Anakin’s pretty sure the circlet only stayed by virtue of Padme's _effusive_ dissertation on how it was necessary to make the outfit complete.

Anakin had appreciated it, of course, even if he’d stopped listening about halfway through and been distracted pretty much ever since.

A strange pin-prick of amused?aggravation passes like smoke through the Force, and Anakin jerks his wandering gaze back to the man with whom he’s supposed to be having a discussion. “Ah, er— anyway! It’s not like we _aren’t_ attached. Exactly.”

The aggravation gives way to the amusement with a swiftness Anakin can only attribute to never having really felt the former. “And yet — the galaxy has not ended.” The Chancellor leans in as he says it, expression downright mischievous. “Some would go so far as to say the two of you _saved it_. Imagine. That.” He raises a finger as Anakin’s chuckle threatens to sidetrack the commentary, and adds, “Makes you wonder what _else_ the Jedi Council might be wrong about, don’t you think?”

Anakin’s gaze instinctively flicks back to the gentle, genial image of his husband across the room. “Ah, well—” It feels… strangely awkward all of a sudden. When Obi-Wan had been on the Council — when _he_ had — complaining about their decisions came _easily_ , but now…

< You’re staring. >

Tension he hadn’t realized was there melts away with the twinkle of humor catching the edges of Obi-Wan’s thought.

< So? >

“… I’m sure they’re doing their best,” he hears himself say. It’s another moment before he can pull his gaze away again, offering little more than a shrug of apology for his wandering attention.

Palpatine’s expression doesn’t change, but something about his presence feels… somehow withdrawn. Odd. Had he actually managed to insult his old friend?

“Sorry, I—”

“Something to do with your husband?”

Anakin blinks, and it takes him a minute to make the connection. “Oh- Oh! Yeah, uh, it’s — the bond?”

“The same bond you said the Council so disapproved of?” The Chancellor hums with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Yeah, ah, it got stronger.” A pause. “Again? It’s kind of difficult to explain, but uh, I swear I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just kind of like having two conversations at once sometimes.”

This seems to spark the open curiosity Anakin is far more used to from the old man. “Truly? How _fascinating_. You really must tell me about it someday, but don’t worry about being _rude_ , my boy, I was merely… surprised to hear you defending the High Council.” He settles back with a short flick of his hands. “But then, you have been spending time at the Temple during your trip, haven’t you? Mending ties, I assume?”

Instantly, Anakin can feel himself relax into the familiar presence of his old confidant all over again. He gives an easy shrug. “Yeah, I guess you could call it that. Originally, were just going to visit some friends, but Master thought it might look rude if we didn’t at least _try_ to visit.”

“Oh, certainly. I can see that,” Sheev amiably returns, this time following Anakin’s glance towards the man in question, a faint curiosity slipping into the Force around him and dissipating swiftly thereafter. “Not that anyone would have blamed you if you hadn’t, of course. You know you always have my support — _although_ ,” he adds before Anakin can really form an answer, “it would certainly be _easier_ to… smooth things over if you had told me you were coming.”

Anakin represses a wince into a guilty twist of his lips. “I really didn’t mean—“

“The last time we even _spoke_ was to deal with that mess on Borgo Prime, what, _three_ months ago now?”

“It really was kind of last minute,” Anakin hastens to explain with an earnest wave of his hand as if actively attempting to push the topic aside. “Master didn’t even tell the _Council_ until we were already in the Core. And we really _did_ appreciate that tip about Borgo, you know! The Office of the Chancellor really does have access to some impressive intel. Master said the Order never even _heard_ about any of it until he asked how _they’ve_ been dealing with the remnants.”

If Palpatine were a lesser man, Anakin’s sure he would have rolled his eyes. Instead, he gives an idle twist of his wrist. “Yes, well, they have never been particularly willing to admit Sith still _exist_ even after one of their own became one and started an intergalactic conflict as a result,” he huffs. “In any case, I am glad I could rely on you to handle it.”

Anakin’s attention returns to Obi-Wan somewhere in the midst of the Chancellor’s praise, saturating the bond with pride and affection to such a degree that he’s actively engaged in a push-pull of emotion by the time a response is expected of him. “Oh, ah, yeah, anytime,” he manages, having to physically turn himself away from his husband in order to re-center his attention on the here and now. “You know you can _always_ count on us.”

“Ah, I wish more more people had that attitude.” Finally, Palpatine actually looks even the slightest bit _pleased_. Anakin doesn’t bother attempting to withhold the swell of pride-accomplishment-fondness that settles into the Force around him as a result. “It’s been quite the struggle since the end of the war, you know. Between organizing relief for so many planets, and that setback with the military—”

“Wait. What setback?”

Palpatine looks genuinely surprised by his question. “The dissolution of the Grand Army of the Republic.” The sheer amount of shock and confusion that shoots into the Force might just be enough for someone as Force-blind as the Chancellor to feel it, judging by his sudden shift closer and the concerned furrow of his brow. “You didn’t know?”

“I— no, we never heard about … any of that.”

Sheev frowns. “… There have been some reports about holonet censorship in the Confederacy but I hadn’t expected—” he cuts himself off with a wave of his hand. “A topic for another time, perhaps. I don’t know why I’m surprised no one bothered to mention it during your trip. You’ll forgive me this bit of politics for once, but your… acquaintances were never particularly strong supporters of the army when we _needed it_. And the Council _certainly_ wouldn’t mention any of it, I’m sure. The Senate just _barely_ managed to keep them from incorporating the whole of it into the Order!”

Anakin stares, wholly unprepared for this sudden drop of information. “I— really? That’s… not what I—”

“Oh, of course, my boy, of course,” the Chancellor hastily soothes with a gently raised hand. “No one suspects the same of _you_. If anything, it was two fewer battalions to worry over.”

“I, uh, yeah?” Anakin’s grip shifts along the hilt of his saber as he flails about for mental footing. Obi-Wan had mentioned… something about the troopers in the Temple, but this seemed like a whole other _scale_. How had they _missed_ something like that? A brush of concern-reassurance wraps around him, letting him steady his thoughts enough to say, “We’re glad to have helped?”

< Dear one? >

“Oh I know. You’ve always been so reliable,” Palpatine murmurs with a quick glance in Obi-Wan’s direction. Was he projecting _that_ much? “It’s just a shame to have lost you to the Council’s mishandling—”

“You haven’t lost me!”

< Later. >

“Well, to married life, then,” the Chancellor says on a soft laugh and the tension-uncertainty-confusion breaks into flustered heat.

“I’m… I’m sure there’s something I can…”

Humor and affection settle into the bond with a teasing flick for good measure. Anakin tries not to pay it much attention. He’s pretty sure he fails.

“Hm, well, now that you mention it, I _could_ use a hand recruiting for the _new_ military.” Palpatine draws his hand back, tapping fingers thoughtfully to his lips as he lets the idea take shape between them. “Yes, I’m sure hearing from ’The Hero Without Fear’ would encourage a good _deal_ of the populace into contributing.”

Something catches somewhere in Anakin’s chest. Just a simple, uncomfortable weight. He forgets for a moment how low the front of his tunic falls and starts a little from the cool touch of metal as he instinctively presses his mechano-arm to his sternum to ease the phantom pressure. “You…” The sound of his voice is too uncertain, so he clears his throat and tries again. “We _left_ , though. Officially. You really think I should?”

The Chancellor is waving off his concerns before he finishes. “Oh, I’m quite sure that means nothing to the millions of people your heroics inspired… whose lives you _saved_.” The way he says it, it’s almost impossible to disagree. “Anyway, it would benefit everyone signing up, too — they’re just not _used_ to the idea anymore. The Republic hasn’t had a standing army in some time — especially one recruited from its citizens — and even now most of what we _do_ have is running mercy missions these days.”

A pause and Palpatine’s whole presence seems to droop with his sigh. “You can never be too careful, however. We are, after all, only shortly into the Treaty. Who knows what will happen in the future? I’m sure that’s what made the Senate so amenable to reforming it at all after dealing with the Order’s ridiculous demands. It’s just been a little… slow. Too many people remember the horrors and not the brave men and women who saved them from it all. I’m sure you understand.”

“I’ll do whatever I can.” The words spill out of Anakin before he can even think of something better — more formal, more fitting of their surroundings and the Chancellor’s eloquent words. Fortunately, Palpatine knows him, or his earnestness is really that obvious or — he’s not sure what, but the Chancellor’s entire demeanor has brightened with his answer, and that is absolutely worth any social faux pas he might have committed in the process.

“Wonderful!”

“Actually,” Anakin jumps in again, eager with news he knows will earn further approval, “I was planning on staying for a while anyway.”

Palpatine seems to catch his brief glance in Obi-Wan’s direction, given the raise of his brows and the following, “ _Just_ you?”

Anakin settles back with a curl of affection into the bond and pushes some of the bangs back out of his face before he can wholly pull his attention back from Obi-Wan long enough to answer. “Honestly, we were supposed to be home already, but there was all this… Force stuff? That we had to deal with first. So Master’s probably heading back in a day or two, but there’s still something I need to… fix. In the Temple.”

“… ‘Fix’?” Palpatine echoes, actually looking surprised — and then immediately intrigued by this new bit of information.

Anakin supposes he shouldn’t be so surprised himself. The Chancellor has always been fascinated by Force-related artifacts. There have been several, over the years, he remembers handling himself. He smiles.

“Yeah. When we have some time, I should tell you about it, actually.”

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month: Castle Serenno, Private Training Halls

“Tuck your elbow.”

Sev’rance shifts back, resetting the angle of her blade in line with the given command. It’s enough, at least, to parry the next two strikes, but she still has to dodge aside with a reflexive push of Force-assisted speed. Dooku doesn’t stop his movement, but his disapproval is clear in her Second Sight. It’s very slight, still, as most things are when she attempts to observe him as she was instructed a galaxy and a lifetime ago.

That she can feel it at all means he’s probably more irritated than normal, but—

The sharp sting-snap of restrained power slaps the hilt of her saber from her hand. She cringes — a barely-there grimace to her master, but something old and deeply buried decries the breach of protocol. “Yield,” she announces, repressing, at least, the urge to shake out a hand she would have lost in a real duel, and turns to retrieve her weapon.

“You’re sloppy,” Dooku says, easing back into a ready stance.

She can’t see the action or his expression — not that either typically helps with the stoic Lord of the Sith — but in her Sight murky disapproval drifts faintly by until she stops walking and raises a hand instead. It shouldn’t be so easy to fall back into habits built in another life. Stubborn, foolish anger shoots the discarded hilt back into her waiting palm.

Just like he’d demonstrated once and only once several years ago.

“Tighten your guard,” is all he says before darting in again.

Sev’rance spins with a sharp spike of command igniting her blade in the last seconds before she catches the renewed attack. The quick flurry of attack-retreat-parry settles her nerves faster than any direction could have, and soon it’s the _right_ muscle memory again, the newer techniques, the powerful thrum of battle coursing through her veins. The mindless, empty rhythm of practiced violence.

“Your mind wanders.”

This time, at least, hard-won muscle memory keeps the blade in her hand. “I—” but only just. “Yes, Master.”

The Count pushes his advance in a graceful, undeterred sweep of precise strikes that presses her back inch by inch. Never the wild aggression of desperate opponents, but neither the calm restraint of balanced defense — always quick, sharp, and never quite the assault she _anticipates_. It’s not an attack to stand against. A pulse of something — he calls it the Force, but in her mind and to her instinct, it’s a pocket of unseen light that directs her blade. A hum, a hiss, and the sudden ever-so-slight friction of success.

_Watch, don’t listen._

Sev’rance slams into the far wall, thought-Sight flashing warnings a second too late, air shoved from her lungs, head throbbing, ears ringing. Her blade remains. She clenches a hand around the humming, heated thrum of power and light, sets her jaw, and opens wide to darkness.

_Never too much at once, Navigator._

Despair, insult and sweet, stubborn, bruised _pride_ shoves the invisible weight from her chest, and across the way her opponent retracts his hand. She should be paying closer attention to why, to how, to the curl of color-thought still there, far beyond her Time. Should be analyzing defenses and patterns in the flow of strikes and the silent guidance of Sight.

_One day it will be too bright, but it will always be too loud._

But her Time has come and gone and still _something_ sears through her veins. That spike of heat-instinct that pushes against the wall and sends her hurtling back to battle. It’s a whisper-push-light and a whip crack of adrenaline that drives her limbs and a red blur of threat-drill-understanding that sinks into her bones. So loud, and so bright, and so violent, and so beautiful: streaks of light in blinding darkness.

_We rest together. We See together._

To her Sight, her opponent’s movements curve and bend like water. Crisp like the slap of waves to cliffs and rocks and shore, beating endlessly and eroding even in retreat. Straight only when convenient, without the predictable, empty space between lines of light and heat and life. Always shadows and whispers. Always passion and pride. Heat and life twisted into something brilliant and terrifying.

_You do not walk alone._

“Better.” The word breaks through her consciousness in the same moment she knows she’s lost.

The Dark in her veins screams defiantly, driving her onward, regardless of everything she can already See. Half a step back and he catches her blade. She shifts, and the Dark moves through her, surging and desperate to make her faster, force her further, push _down_ and pressure the guard. So he moves, in the very image of the thought-color-glimmer she’d Seen, darting forward when he should be retreating, a flurry of shadows that seizes her by the throat when instinct fails and training snaps her knee up between them.

The rest is too fast, her vision still spinning with it when the heat-threat sizzles at her throat and she gasps for lost breath. Only adrenaline remains. Something unfulfilling and shaky in place of the power that suffused her only seconds before. Dooku stares down at her, illuminated by the simmering red of his blade, one eyebrow raised in a parody of patience as he waits in that way of victorious instructors the galaxy over.

_You are with me, and we are here._

“… Yield.”

_You do not walk alone._

The light of his saber vanishes before she finishes the word. “Tell me of it.”

Sev’rance pauses part way through shoving herself up from the floor, frowning down at the ancient stone. The sudden spike of fear his words cause is… unexpected. “I—” Disrespectful. Shameful. Unacceptable. Getting to her feet is an act of sheer, stubborn will, but no more so than turning to face him again, back straight, clearly meeting his gaze. “With apologies, it is difficult to translate, Master.”

Csilla is lightyears behind her — the other side of a space so vast she hadn’t believed the maps at first sight. So far away, the Ascendancy is nothing more than hopes and memories, its people myth and mystery, its ways obscure and unknown. They should not cling so.

Dooku watches her for only a moment, clipping the hilt of his saber to his belt before calling hers over from the floor with an absent curl of his fingers. “You feel _conflicted_ , Apprentice.”

Shame curls hotly in her gut, but she stays as she is, pride always more than enough to see her through. That, at least, has never changed. “In some ways,” she admits, because she knows denying it is not what he wants to hear. Dooku has never been someone for lip service, no matter his demand for propriety, and she appreciates it in more ways than he can ever really know.

He gives a quiet hum of acknowledgement, absently adjusting her blade back to its lethal settings in the meantime. “Are you not of my house, Sev’rance Tann?”

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget how insightful her master is.

Sev’rance curls her hands into fists in the small of her back, instinctively pushing the rush of hot pride to the side lest it overwhelm. “I am honored to be such, Master.” It’s not rote, and she knows he can tell, in spite of how many of the Core Systems peoples deem her speech too cold and detached. Perhaps, she thinks, it’s his own history that lets her words mean more than the emotions that spawn them.

His own history with a people he had to leave behind — for himself, for family, for the galaxy. In this, they are aligned. In this, they walk together.

“Perhaps,” Dooku says, voice never raised but drawing her attention regardless, “we should begin with the words alone.” He extends the hilt of her saber back towards her in a loose grip. “‘You do not walk alone,’ should be a direct translation, I believe.”

Something in her chest loosens and she raises a hand to return her hilt with the same, easy gesture Dooku himself employed moments earlier. A faint flash of approval-color flickers before him and is gone. It’s enough.

“It is… an old mantra,” Sev’rance begins, choosing her words carefully. There should be more discomfort in sharing something so traitorous, but with her hand curled tightly around the proof of her separation, she only pauses to find the correct words in her new life to describe something from the old. “Perhaps the first thing we learn. It helps… bring us to ground. It is easy to be lost in the flow.” Her lips twitch with a repressed curl of amusement when the correct words become clear. “ _Wonoksh Qyâsik nun_.”

Dooku’s eyebrows raise slightly, surprised by her choice of language as much as the comparison, no doubt. It’s not long before the sense of revelation gives way to thoughtful consideration, however, and her master’s keen insight comes to the fore again. “There is strength in the words themselves,” he concludes, already accepting the truth of his own statement with a nod.

“Even in your example, however, understanding is more important to implementation than the language. There is always power in the words, of course — that is why it is taught — but strength comes from meaning more than sound.” He takes an unexpected step closer, then, holding her gaze intently. “If I cared _where_ you gained knowledge, do you think I would have allowed Sifo-Dyas to train you as well, Sev’rance?”

Another, unforeseen move, but not entirely difficult to follow the reasoning after the fact, she thinks. It’s a relief, and one she hadn’t thought she’d needed. But if that was the case, drawing Sifo-Dyas back from the flow wouldn’t have been so disconcerting a reminder of all she’d left behind. Would not have lingered with her as it has — until now.

“No,” Sev’rance says, finally allowing the memory to ease over her without a fight. She raises a hand, careful, slow, and clear in her intent to rest just the tips of her fingers gently against his temple. It’s easier to share through touch, even all these years later.

His presence adjusts easily to her as she shifts their Sight to the past and the image of a young Chiss woman leaning forward to do the same to her. In her memory, the familiar tones undulate between the back of the throat and the base of the tongue, producing a regimented litany. In her present, she matches the sounds to her new language and her new life.

“You are here. We are here.”

< The Captain announces the destination and Sev’rance turns to the view screen. The silence of anticipation fills her as the crew calls out confirmations. She’s five, and the cold void surrounds them all. >

“You are with me, and we are here together.”

< Thousands of stars, thousands of strands of light in the dark. She’s nine, and a girl half her age curls into her side, eyes wide in terrified awe. Color-thought swirls through the darkness, and she wraps a comforting arm around her learner. >

“We rest together. We See together.”

< Alarms beep a steady siren of distress and somewhere behind her, an officer strains to be heard over the cacophony of a crumpling hull. She’s nine and she can feel the terror of the well-disciplined servicemen rushing through emergency procedures. She swallows against the discord and reaches for the manual route adjustment. >

“You do not walk alone.”

< She’s eleven when the stars dim. The instructors call it miraculous when she makes it to _thirteen_ before the thought-color fades away. Something inside slips away. >

“Together, we walk the stars.”

< A sun rises — >

No. That’s not right. That’s —

> — hulking, deeply red, and cracked open, pouring its heat and life and sluggish, unending misery into the ruins below.
> 
> A sun —

“You should be more careful, Apprentice.”

It takes another moment to blink her eyes back into focus. Dooku stands before her, no different than moments before, save for a slight frown, but there’s a warning in the air still and a pressure around her. Sev’rance draws a shaky breath against the lingering Sight, trembling still in ways she never had in her youth. Her mouth feels dry and her body heavy.

“Apprentice.”

“That is not—” She swallows back the terror, pushing it clumsily into the Force.

“ _Sev’rance Tann_ ,” her gaze snaps to his and he holds it firmly, shifting her hand from his head to his chest. “Focus on me, Sev’rance.” The steady heartbeat eases her own. “Melding like that is not—”

“That is what Sifo-Dyas sees,” spills past her lips before she can reign in the realization.

Dooku falls silent, watching her closely for a long a moment. Then, when her heart finally calms and the screeching threat vanishes from Sight, he says, “It is.”

Sev’rance hesitates, feeling the lurch of selfish curiosity, but struggling beneath useless protocol never practiced nor expected since her arrival. “… Why do you See it?” She finally asks, uncertainly drawing her hand back to her.

Dooku’s lips press together and something about him seems to retreat. “It is dangerous to meld signatures with another like that, Apprentice. You should refrain from it.”

Her eyebrows lift in open surprise. “He shared his Third Sight,” she surmises, pleased when the words emerge cool and collected.

“Sifo-Dyas and I have experience with such things—”

“‘ _Dzwol shâsotkun_ ’. I remember.”

The Count narrows his eyes slowly, though he remains closed to inspection in the Force. “… Through passion, strength, Apprentice.”

“Yes, the strength needed to sprint the distance of the Castle in so short a time and still meld so successfully and without damage _is_ impressive, my Master.”

To her gaze, heat creeps up her master’s form in that curious, self-conscious reaction that betrays, it seems, even the most collected humans. A dry, almost giddy sort of amusement bubbles up from within, but she catches it long before it can show.

“I shall endeavor to learn it with care.”

Dooku stands for a moment in unmoving silence, the barest flash of uncertain color-thought flickering between. She stares back, unblinking and calm in ways entirely unreflective of her inner thoughts. Suspicion wisps around his feet, drifts around her and passes beyond Sight.

“… See that you do, Apprentice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chiss relevant notes, per canon:**
> 
>   * It’s a very important part of Chiss culture to be considered part of a high ranking House. While Dooku doesn’t actually know a whole lot about Chiss in general, he’s figured that part out, so he’s well aware of how Sev’rance will take his words. 
>   * Chiss generally don’t have a lot of Force Sensitives and refer to it as “having the Sight” - thus all the weird capitals. Sorry. I kind of assume you can figure this out in context, but I realized after I wrote the scene that’s it’s probably less clear that Chiss also generally don’t maintain Force Sensitivity into adulthood.
>   * I don’t think Disney!Canon actually specifies Chiss adulthood, but Legends-wise it was somewhere around 10/11, and I love weird alien shit so I’m rolling with it. φ(￣ー￣ )ノ. 
>     * This is relevant quite a while later in the story, but for now I hope it helps make her age jumps in memory more understandable. There’s also a sort of oblique reference earlier from Sifo-Dyas’s perspective regarding this. 
>     * TL;DR: Sev’rance actually kind of young when she shows up. At least by Core standards.
>   * Also, in case it wasn’t clear last chapter, Sev’rance 100% considers Sifo-Dyas pretty much the same as Chiss Force Sensitives primarily because of his “Third Sight” or as we know them, “Terrifying, Prophetic Visions of Doom” :)
> 

> 
> **Story Specific:**
> 
> I’d add pictures for Obi-Wan and Anakin’s outfits because we actually spent an inordinate amount of time working on them, but we both suck at drawing and are too bashful to share, soooo… Here’s [Inspiration For Anakin’s Outfit](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/5c/0a/cf/5c0acf9c0e5022c7feba787805ffc719.jpg) and [Inspiration for Obi-Wan’s](https://i.imgur.com/5JiauXC.jpg). Also, something for [Anakin’s Hairdo](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQUScHp1_yHXNkpKAX2xxpaw2wjKe3FbtQOfg&usqp=CAU). 
> 
> Anyone who _can_ draw, is, of course, encouraged to give it a shot. ( ƅ°ਉ°)ƅ 
> 
> The outfits are going to stay for the next chapter, since this one ended up kind of long. ᕕ╏ ͡ ▾ ͡ ╏┐So yes, the actual melting of Obi-Wan Kenobi begins next chapter. Apologies for the delay. ᕕ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )ᕗ
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **See Previous Timelines**
> 
> **18 BBY**
> 
>   * Treaty Negotiations between the Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems
>   * Official End of The Clone Wars
>   * The 501st and 212th Battalions Are Officially Released to Yavin IV  
>  Anakin plays space taxi to pick them all up
>   * Discovery of Lost Jedi City in Yavin underground
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin adopt a family from Kijimi  
>  Gain First Post-Order Padawan
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin rescue some slaves from Hutt space
>   * _Jedi Adopt As Many Clones As Possible_
> 

> 
>   
>  **17 BBY**   
> 
> 
>   * _Grand Army of the Republic Disbanded_
>   * _Republic Navy Re-Established_
> 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep until the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
>   * _Outer Rim Development and Economic Outreach Conference, hosted on Coruscant_
> 



	17. In Which Obi-Wan Isn't Sure He's Drunk Enough For This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To those of you here for the lulz (or the plot, even): we promise there are other things in this chapter even if they're bracketed by porn.
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: "Sex Bomb" by Tom Jones

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 5): Outer Rim Development and Economic Outreach Conference

“I wouldn’t so quickly dismiss more local options for trade,” Obi-Wan is saying as Anakin finally slips in amongst the small group of decidedly mismatched delegates. “If we relied entirely on Republic-sourced goods, I daresay we’d be in a far worse position by now.”

Anakin knows well enough to wait until his husband finishes before greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. Obi-Wan is, of course, unsurprised by his arrival or his choice of greeting and a sense of fond, if somewhat amused, acceptance filters into the bond between them. The closest delegate — a brightly dressed woman of middling age with voluminous robes that dip just a little lower than decent in the front — gives him an appraising look that sweeps from bottom to top in a second before returning her attention to the man at his side.

Assessed and dismissed in less than a second. Anakin would care _more_ if it meant he didn’t have to deal with these people. And it’s not like Obi-Wan isn’t … _really_ nice to look at right now, anyway.

“I’m certain being stuck in the heart of … _Confederate_ space would contribute to that,” she dryly comments, gold-painted lips curling as if she’s made some sort of joke.

The brush of disgust-irritation, and a distinct sensation Anakin has long since pegged as ‘Force, help me’ simmers on Obi-Wan’s side of the bond.

Out loud, his husband quite dryly murmurs, “Yes, I suppose it does at that,” and swiftly finishes a flute of… wine, Anakin is pretty sure. At least, it doesn’t look like beer, and is colored differently from the other options that had been paraded by on gleaming silver trays throughout his entire conversation with the Chancellor. _Those_ practically made his eyes water.

In the bond, Obi-Wan relays a spark of mirth at the thought-memory.

“Eh, it’s not so bad,” Anakin adds with a wide grin for the small group. Affection-pride-happiness radiates out of the bond so strongly at the thought of what they’ve built together that some members of their small conversation seem to visibly brighten as a result. Obi-Wan’s admonishment is lost somewhere in Anakin's movement to wrap an arm around his husband's waist. “Lots of privacy, at least,” he adds with a wink.

Obi-Wan doesn’t _actually_ choke, but the sensation passes into the bond. Instead, he manages a polite, if wry, twist of his lips amongst the faux-scandalized laughter of their company. Honestly, Anakin already knows he’s not the most _cordial_ — never has been, and probably never will be, so long as Obi-Wan is there to handle things instead. At least _now_ he can spend the time appreciating the view and it’s not some kind of _sin_.

< _Anakin._ >

Sudden awareness of the arm wrapped around Obi-Wan’s waist, the absent brush of Anakin’s fingers against the jut of a hip and the flex of powerful muscles visible beneath two layers of synthweave silk that hides _absolutely nothing_ passes hastily through the bond. Anakin grins unrepentantly and slides up closer. Peripherally, he’s aware Obi-Wan is still talking — because Obi-Wan is amazing and can focus on delicate conversation in spite of the fuzzy, persistent awareness and heat pressed to his side. A distinctly familiar mantra echoes faintly in the distance of the bond.

“— understand being in Wild Space doesn’t exactly foster good relations.” Obi-Wan’s voice is thoughtful and low, with just the barest hint of heat.

“Remarkably understated.”

Apparently the lavishly dressed woman lost interest at some point after Anakin returned — he’s not exactly upset — and has been replaced by a dark-skinned man in smartly cut, but far simpler, royal blue robes. Something not unlike admonishment drifts into the bond. All it does it make Anakin shift his hold, drawing his hand up higher to curl purposefully into Obi-Wan’s side.

“... aside from which, you _have_ to know hyperspace routes are few and far between past Javin,” the man is still saying, apparently. His gaze, unlike the previous woman’s, never seems to stray from Obi-Wan’s face. It is, Anakin notices with some mirth, rather _forcibly_ kept there.

“Surely the Republic—”

“Pah! ‘Surely’ nothing,” the man huffs, grabbing some eye-watering shot glass from a passing waiter and tossing it back like medicine. His wince makes Anakin peer suspiciously at the serving tray as the twi’lek lingers just long enough to collect the glass. “There’s no sure thing on the Outer Rim. Republic might as well not exist, sometimes.”

Some measure of distressed empathy manages to overtake the disconcerted mantra on Obi-Wan’s end of the bond as Anakin pulls away long enough to inquire after the shot options. The twi’lek seems surprised by his questions, staring slightly as she hurries to explain each strangely colored option on her tray.

“… be a difficult situation,” Obi-Wan is saying somewhere just over his shoulder when Anakin finally decides on something mostly clear with a faint green hue. “Have you approached the subcommittee with the Confederacy’s offer?”

Shock-surprise snaps into the Force just before Obi-Wan’s current conversation partner stammers a hushed, “Conf- ah, alternative offer?”

Huh. It’s kind of fruity. And _really_ strong. Anakin doesn’t quite wince, so much as blink watering eyes as he returns the small glass to the tray. He’s pretty sure the twi’lek is amused, but she’s clearly been at this for a while, because it’s only a quick flick of her gaze from him to Obi-Wan and back that indicates as much before she continues on.

“I meant no offense,” Obi-Wan interjects the moment their current company stops his anxious ramble about loyalty.

Anakin slips back into his former spot the same moment Obi-Wan sends him the amused memory of vod-produced spirits being poured out of makeshift distillery vats. He just barely refrains from sticking his tongue out and tightens his hold instead. Somehow, Obi-Wan’s voice remains steady throughout.

“… only smart business to consider competing offers, isn’t it?” His husband spends far too much time smoothing ruffled feathers. Anakin, meanwhile, catches a slight shift in Obi-Wan’s perfection and reaches up to carefully fiddle the slim, gold circlet back into proper position.

The other man is answering again, with a flustered easing of tension drifting into Anakin’s perception. He doesn’t pay much attention otherwise. So long as he can keep track of the emotional states around them, he can keep Obi-Wan safe from all but his own wandering hands.

The absent thought along with the sudden reminder of Obi-Wan’s current attire sends another bit of repressed heat and admonishment into the bond. The mantra returns somewhere on the other end, with a hint of desperation. Anakin laughs quietly, dropping his hand to Obi-Wan’s shoulder to facilitate a very deliberate lean into his space.

“… don’t think I have the influence you think I do, Senator.” The words pick up in pace as Obi-Wan’s desperation to end their current interaction as quickly and politely as possible grows. Anakin slides his finger along the seam circling the open cutouts in the black cloth sleeves of his husband’s outfit, blatantly enjoying Obi-Wan's beaten back heat-embarrassment-affection that sizzles into the bond.

“Well, a man can only try,” says the apparently-a-senator, as his words take on just the little bit more Wild Space twang.

“Certainly, true—” Anakin’s wandering fingers cut Obi-Wan’s answer short before the spike of heat-attraction can melt into his voice. The far end of the bond reshuffles itself rather hastily, and Obi-Wan politely clears his throat before continuing. “If you don’t mind, I believe my husband may have… indulged a bit.”

Anakin brushes a finger directly along the exposed flesh just above the short collar of Obi-Wan’s fashionably short over-tunic in obvious revenge. It earns him a sharp glance from his husband and a disconcerted laugh from the Senator.

“Yes, I can see,” the man eventually says, raising a hand as if to shake Obi-Wan’s only to realize how tricky the process would be with Anakin draped over one side, and awkwardly transitions to a courteous wave instead. “It’s been a pleasure. I will keep your suggestions in mind.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Obi-Wan echoes with a nod.

< You’re impossible. >

“It’s not like I’m _actually_ drunk,” Anakin points out, attention lingering along Obi-Wan’s jawline while he lets his fingers wander. “And anyway, it’s not _my_ fault you’re distractingly attractive right now.”

Obi-Wan turns into his hold in order to properly land an utterly baleful expression on him. In the same moment Anakin shares memory-image comparisons between his husband’s elegantly collared neck and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows, or the perfect tension in his jaw when he—

“ _Anakin_!” It’s hissed, so it comes out more quietly, but the flustered heat has all but overtaken Obi-Wan’s otherwise completely neutral tones from mere moments earlier. The bond flushes with the victory in Anakin’s grin. “Now is _not_ the time—”

“What? It’s not like half the people here aren’t _enjoying the view_.”

“That is aside from the point and also, entirely _your fault_ ,” Obi-Wan sharply hisses back as embarrassment mounts in the bond. He lays a hand at Anakin’s hip — which is, well, certainly not helping his case, at any rate — in order to guide them swiftly out of the main hall. “Do you know how difficult it is when you…” he makes a short gesture they’ve both taken to using when referring to the unexplainable between them.

Anakin grins, leaning into Obi-Wan’s lead so he can bodily guide them more quickly behind one of the wide pillars supporting the mezzanine that circles the perimeter of the open floor. “ _Difficult?_ “ he presses with a purr of decidedly nefarious intentions as appreciative images of golden synthweave emphasizing Obi-Wan’s impressive but usually hidden musculature crowds the bond.

“Yes. Difficult.” Obi-Wan shifts back, trying to create space, but managing only to push himself further against the column. Distress-attraction-interest-anxiety flutters restlessly between them. Then he swallows and carefully tucks most of it gently into the Force. “You have… obviously noticed how… form-fitting my attire is,” he attempts, voice beautifully steady with that iron control of a Jedi Master.

The reminder, of course, only drags a disconcerted flush back to his cheeks.

“Mmm,” Anakin hums as he leans in, hands bracketing Obi-Wan’s head. “I _have_ noticed.” The words rumble pleasantly in his throat where the faint burn of alcohol still lingers.

“… Then _surely_ you’ve noticed how… _difficult_ ,” Obi-Wan emphasizes the word with a pointed glance down and up again, “it is to… _manage_ with you—” A brief tumble of memories spill over too quickly to really focus on anything, but Anakin’s pretty sure he’s got the gist of it.

Not nearly because raising his leg slightly defines the exact problem in the form of the definite _interest_ pressing into the top of his thigh. Obi-Wan, incredibly, restrains the gasp Anakin can practically _hear_ in the Force between them, which is honestly far more attractive than it probably should be. But Anakin stopped thinking about all the ways he _should be_ around the last time they were on Coruscant, so he leans in until they’re nearly flush, knowing it will give him _all_ of his husband’s attention before uttering a single word.

“I can… help you with that, you know.”

The sharp spike of lust is its own reward. The obvious throb of _approval_ pressed to his thigh even more so.

Still, Obi-Wan says, “This is neither the time _nor_ the place,” even if on a strained, heated whisper.

Anakin just rolls his eyes and impishly steals a kiss. “You know, Master, just because I don’t _like_ these events doesn’t mean I don’t know what happens at them.”

“ _Anakin!_ “ The level of desperation leaking into Obi-Wan’s voice is… pleasant.

“Come _on_ , you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed all the side rooms—”

“That’s hardly appropriate use of government property!”

“Well, it’s what they’re _being_ used for.”

“That doesn’t mean _we_ —” Obi-Wan makes a strangled noise somewhere in the back of his throat and lays a hand on Anakin’s chest. Determination trembles like a plucked string in the bond as he pushes them carefully apart. “Anakin, be _reasonable_. Someone will notice we’re gone.”

“So?”

“ _So_ —” Obi-Wan uses the momentary distraction to duck under one of Anakin’s arms and quickly out of his prowl. It’s a familiar technique, and Anakin would be more frustrated if the man’s… _interest_ didn’t remain obvious beneath the carefully molded fabric covering him. “Someone noticing means people _looking_. There’s bound to be security footage, not to mention paparazzi—”

“So what?” Anakin interrupts, pressing his advantage because no matter his husband’s rattled reasoning, he can _feel_ the interest-arousal splashing eagerly through the bond. That and, well — he glances down and back up, enjoying the deepening flush the pointed raise of his eyebrows brings afterward. “So some people _maybe_ catch sight of me dragging _my husband_ into a private room? That’s hardly _news_.”

“It’s _certainly_ gossip,” Obi-Wan dryly retorts.

“Well, it’s not like you can go back out there like _that_.”

How Obi-Wan manages to look so absolutely _done with him_ when he can _feel_ the torrent of lust-concern-eagerness-embarrassment churning between them is honestly impressive. “ _That_ ,” Obi-Wan flatly declares, eyes narrowed, “is entirely your fault.”

“Right,” Anakin cheerfully agrees and closes the remaining distance again. “So, I’m taking responsibility — isn’t that what you’ve always wanted from me, Master?”

The words manage to fluster Obi-Wan long enough to capture him in a brief but intense kiss. Obi-Wan’s hand, previously raised to ward him off, hovers a moment in uncertainty before falling to his shoulder, and in that moment Anakin knows he’s won. He loops an arm around Obi-Wan’s waist again, using the leverage to deepen the kiss just long enough to match the thrill of triumph in the bond.

When they break, it’s with a wonderfully breathy, “Oh, all _right_.”

The distinct feeling of ‘Force, help me,’ returns as Anakin springs to action, drawing Obi-Wan deeper into the alcoves of the large hall before he has time to second guess the decision. Not without a cheeky < That’s what _I’m_ here for, > in the Force bond, along with a wink over his shoulder, of course. Obi-Wan’s expression is both unquestionably flustered and exasperated. Even still he manages to keep pace, dodge the serving staff, and generally encouraging everyone along the way to forget they ever saw them until they’re comfortably tucked into what appears to be some sort of unused office space.

“What was that about inappropriate use—?”

“Oh, save it,” Obi-Wan mutters, locking the door behind them with a flick of his fingers.

Anakin pounces.

It’s impossible _not_ to when Obi-Wan is there and _radiant_ and encouraging him into illicit trysts in the backroom of some political soiree they aren’t even finished with.

< Hardly _encouraged_ you. >

The thought is barely even a correction by the time it slides into Anakin’s side of the bond. There’s too much want-need-yes wrapped around it. Too much of Obi-Wan’s hands curling into his hair as he shoves the man back against the door, lips locked, and tongues eagerly matched. Too much enthusiasm in how Obi-Wan rocks his hips up along a leg shoved purposely between his own.

< Plan? >

“If you can think _that_ clearly still,” Anakin mutters as they part, dropping a hand to Obi-Wan’s hip to steady the desperate roll of his hips.

“Hardly. Clear.”

The hands in his hair twist and tighten, dragging him back for another fierce kiss. Lust-desperation-want floods the bond and it’s all Anakin can do to keep himself on task long enough to scramble along the side of silken, gold fabric for the one specific… _there_. Anakin breaks the kiss with a flash of success in the bond and an impish grin between them.

“Awfully… full of yourself,” Obi-Wan pants softly, pupils blown wide in the darkness of the room as he leans back to keep Anakin in view, “for someone who—”

“Who said I don’t have a plan?” Anakin cheekily returns, freeing his other hand to help with the somewhat complex pull up and down against the same spot that seamlessly parts expensive fabric just above Obi-Wan’s hip.

“Well, you certainly haven’t shared it,” Obi-Wan huffs, with another, more teasing tug of his hair. “And as we haven’t got all night—”

“You get pretty bossy when you’re horny, you know that, Master?” The synthsilk parts easily along the hidden seam, the bottom half of Obi-Wan’s golden tunic splitting open with a whispered ripple. Anakin slips his hand under immediately, grinning broadly at the bitten back groan that escapes as he traces his way to the front of skintight pants and the prominent bulge hardly hidden by the form-fitting fabric.

“I— ah, was not aware, no—”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Anakin cuts in, because he’s starting to feel something _other than_ the oppressive swirl of attraction on Obi-Wan’s side of the bond and he needs a second to finagle open the front of his husband’s pants. “I’m not complaining.”

Anakin slips to the floor as he tugs Obi-Wan’s erection free of its confines, earning himself another bitten back hitch of breath in reward. Usually, it wouldn’t be enough — usually, he prefers it when Obi-Wan gets _vocal_ — but at the moment, sneaking around side rooms at a fancy government shindig, it suits him just fine. If nothing else, Obi-Wan’s desperation — not to be heard, not to be denied, for _him_ — keeps everything piling euphorically into the bond and nowhere else.

Under threat of discovery and strict time limits, Obi-Wan is a silent bundle of anxious, epicurean _desire_ tightly wound and all but vibrating want-need-desire within shields he doesn’t dare relax. Anakin bites his lip for the moment it takes to right himself against the unseen tide. The grip in his hair tightens again, tugging him forward as he leans into the pull, barely having the time to part his lips before he’s swallowing the thick girth of his husband’s eager erection.

There’s a whisper of apology, but it’s drowned out by relief-desire-appreciation. Anakin allows himself a low groan, pressing his tongue into the underside of his husband’s cock to better transfer his pleasure. It’s easy, now, after several years of practice, to relax his jaw and push forward, greedy when Obi-Wan is hesitant. Even now, when the hand in his hair twists and tugs, trying to hold him back just that little bit. Even now, with Obi-Wan obviously concerned, but enjoying himself too much to really slow Anakin’s progress until he’s swallowed the thick length to the hilt.

The near silent puff of breath that escapes Obi-Wan when Anakin swallows is nothing compared to the torrent of want-desire-you-look-so-good-like-that that crashes from one end of the bond into the other. Another moan, muffled by the erection his lips strain to envelop, escapes before he can steady himself, his mechano-hand shoving Obi-Wan’s hips back against the door as he curbs the overflowing emotion-image-sensation into some more manageable corner of his mind. Obi-Wan shudders against him, digging strong fingers into his scalp even as Anakin pulls away to catch his breath with a slick ‘pop’.

“You’re holding _back_ ,” Anakin pants, throat already scratchy from misuse.

Obi-Wan draws a shaky breath, apparently incapable of trusting his mouth further and so pressing a sharp < _Anakin_ — > through the bond. His hips tense in Anakin’s hold, barely restrained from arching up with the eager twitch of his cock straining for more.

Anakin licks his lips, and raises his flesh hand to trace just his fingertips along his husband’s erect length, glancing up to watch his reactions. “Weren’t you just saying we don’t… have a lot of time…” He leans forward again, lapping once at the dribble of pre-cum escaping as he guides the cock to his lips and breathes, “… _Master_?” against the sensitive tip.

Obi-Wan pulls him sharply forward, forcing his mouth open so spit-slick lips slide to the base so fast, Anakin has to swallow to keep from gagging, and even then a startled noise escapes. A startled, _pleased_ noise, and a crash of victory-desire-success in the bond. Anakin keeps his gaze locked upward, demanding Obi-Wan’s attention as he pushes back against the hand braced at the crown of his head just far enough to bob his mouth along the thick length.

Thought-memory-emotion rushes forward in an all-too-pleased blur and suddenly, the image Anakin makes — kneeling in a dark room, blue eyes turned up, wide and glazed with desire as he sucks fervently on his master’s thick cock, skin flushed, lips reddened from effort — thrums vibrantly between them. Anakin can feel the strain of his jaw and the firm grip against his scalp in the same moment he knows Obi-Wan’s deep _ache_ to free desperate hips and hold him in place—

He’s barely through the notion of approval before Obi-Wan’s shoving his mechano-hand aside, and thrusting deep. Anakin’s choked surprise is barely audible and immediately overrun by the need to blink his eyes free of the tears the strain causes. Unheard praise wisps through the Force between them, a constant stream of guilt-approval that relaxes him into his husband’s demanding hold until his only concern is maintaining the pretty picture he makes as his master fucks his mouth.

They’re barely more than a few minutes past that thought when he’s shoved to the base of Obi-Wan’s cock — instinct more than warning passing through the bond — just before his husband climaxes. Anakin has to pull back as he swallows, trying to keep pace with the hot spurts of cum, but eventually catching a gasp of breath that spills some of the pearly liquid on to abused lips before he pushes forward again, greedily accepting the rest with deep swallows and encouraging little whines until, finally, the pressure eases and Obi-Wan collapses back against the door with a muffled thump.

Anakin takes a moment, while his husband lingers briefly in his lassitude, to carefully clean along the sensitive skin until there’s nothing left save for what he licks from his own lips. Obi-Wan stirs only slightly when he starts tucking the man carefully back into pants that are, apparently, _actually too tight for underwear_. It’s probably the flash of humor more than the echo of his tidying efforts within the bond that finally drags Obi-Wan from his afterglow.

The hand in his hair gentles into an affectionate petting motion and then Obi-Wan joins him in the bond — calm, peaceful, and steady — to lovingly tend to the shielding around and between them. Not very high, of course, but enough that his vision-opinions-emotions aren’t _also_ Obi-Wan’s anymore.

“… Should have been more careful,” Obi-Wan murmurs his apology several minutes later, still stroking Anakin’s hair and pouring fond relief into the bond.

“Got you off pretty hard, though,” Anakin impishly counters with a broad grin, earning himself a short tug of reprimand.

“ _Impossible_ —”

A sudden chime from somewhere further in the dark room jolts Anakin to his feet on battle-born instinct, but Obi-Wan quickly grounds him with a hand at his back and a similar sensation in the bond.

“Just a clock.” The words tease and soothe at once. Somehow.

Anakin droops over his husband in relief, but not without a pointed shove at his shoulder. “Your fault.”

“ _My_ fault?”

“You got me all wound up— wait, what time is it?” Anakin suddenly straightens away, twisting around in search of the device before Obi-Wan can answer. He makes it two steps further into the room before he can make out the dim numbers — and then he’s immediately spinning back for the door with a hushed, “Oh _kark_ — _Padmé_!”

Obi-Wan, of course, hastily sidesteps his exit with an exasperated punting motion in the bond.

* * *

For the sake of being somewhat _less_ obvious about previous activities, Obi-Wan takes his time cleaning up. It's not easy in the dark without a mirror, but he manages to smooth the odd, synthetic fabric all but glued to his body into something resembling its formerly pristine state. In his defense, the self-binding properties of synthsilk are not something he's had to work with before, and it's certainly a lot easier for someone _else_ to handle it.

Nevertheless, he manages to get everything resealed properly enough to slip out of the room and make his way as subtly as possible to the nearest bathroom. Somewhere in the great room beyond he can feel Anakin fluttering about — a constant, humming presence at the end of their bond, sometimes farther than he should be, now closer and wound contently around their shared space in the Force. Most of the time, it's reassuring, if a bit distracting. At the moment, Obi-Wan is just relieved the heat has drained out enough that he can _think_ again.

Of course, that doesn't mean he's not above eliciting additional aid in maintaining his newly cleaned up appearance and returned serenity. In fact, he's two shots into a table of sparkling preventative maintenance, amiably listening to the riveting details of irrigation legislation on bacta-producing planets before he remembers the reason he largely refrains from allowing alcohol to dull his senses.

_"Obi-Wan Kenobi."_

He could go the rest of his life, he thinks, without hearing his full name cracked like a whip by the women he knows.

"… Duchess Kryze," he says with a raise of his glass in greeting to the woman in question, currently in the midst of sweeping a critical gaze down his _entire_ form before arching a single brow. "I wasn't aware you'd be in attendance."

Where in the Sith Hells has Anakin run off to?

* * *

"You've really… _committed_ ," Satine dryly remarks, several minutes and the entire length of the room later.

Obi-Wan offers her a wry expression and finishes his drink before answering. It's been little more than pleasantries and idle conversation across the entire distance of the open hall before he could settle them into a corner bracketed with tables of finger food and the alcohol he's entirely sure he's going to need for this conversation. So when he finally sets his glass aside, it's quickly replaced with another.

"I should think my 'commitment' is fairly widely known by now."

"Indeed." Satine's gaze traces quickly along the stem of his new glass, down his arm, and then skips back to his brow before returning to his eyes. The Duchess of Mandalore has always been a formidable woman; even now several years past their prime — past _them_ — her gaze is more judge-jury-executioner than her pacifistic morals would imply. Nothing of it shows in the Force, of course. "… _Gold_ , Obi-Wan?"

His lips press into a thin line. "Obviously, not quite to my taste—"

"Your husband's, then?" She tilts her head a bit as she says it, elaborate headdress catching the light as if to highlight the scrutiny of her words. It's not the one he last remembers her wearing, but something more decorative with glints of metal in amongst the lily-like tubes.

Something in her tone laces skepticism into the words, though precisely where, he can't quite pin down. It doesn't help the sharp flare of heat that brushes his cheeks with the reminder of his activities not fifteen minutes prior. He sips at his newly acquired drink, hoping the presence of alcohol is enough to write off the faint flush. "Well, he's certainly _appreciative_."

So he's never been particularly good at backing down from a game of chicken with Satine. He blames Anakin for landing him in this situation to begin with, really.

The Duchess, however, furrows her brow, as if his response has presented a particularly obtuse puzzle rather than the bluntness he'd intended to ward off further inquisition. "… I suppose you always were rather _protective_ … for a Jedi."

What?

Obi-Wan takes another, longer draught of whatever sweet, stinging alcohol was assigned to the nearby table before answering. Honestly, how is he supposed to even take that? "I must say this is a little unexpected, Duchess."

It earns him a blink, at least. "Unexpected?"

"You know very well I haven't been a Jedi for years," he murmurs, mostly into the glass flute at his lips, "it seems… inconsiderate to push the comparison. I didn't expect that from you."

"… _Obi-Wan_ ," the Duchess sighs, one hand raising on instinct, only to pause, hovering at a slight distance before retracting it again into a clasp of her hands at the front of the artfully adorned robes. Then, even more unexpectedly, her expression turns openly dry. "You could have _said something_."

It's his turn to blink in absolute confusion. "… Pardon?"

"'I won't leave him'," she quotes with another, pointed raise of her eyebrows.

He tries not to let his flush deepen, but it's difficult and there's no real way to know if he succeeds, and — where the _kriff_ has Anakin run off to? "I… suppose I did say that."

"Of course, even I never expected…" She gestures to, well, all of him again. "It just seems a little _extreme_."

"Yes, well, it wasn't exactly _my_ choice in the matter—"

"You don't need to _parade_ yourself, Obi-Wan."

"As I _may_ have mentioned—"

" _Most_ people will believe you out of convenience."

"I– excuse me?" Her expression, if anything, resembles… amused sympathy? It's hardly anything to reach out in the Force between them, but the answer he receives is the same: humor, sympathy… and fond concern, if he had to put words to it.

She leans in slightly — just enough to lower her voice and still be heard over the din of chatter surrounding them. "It's been five _years_ , Ben."

Obi-Wan briefly considers the possibility of his drink having been drugged, somehow.

"Do you think I would have turned you away?"

Slowly, the pieces start coming together.

"I _think_ Mandalore had quite a bit to deal with on it's own without—"

"I am not _just_ Mandalore, Obi-Wan." Then, as if it's being physically dragged from her, she adds, "… And Skywalker is at least part of the reason Mandalore still _exists_."

"Anakin would be flattered to hear that, I'm sure."

She gives a short wave of her hands. "Do you think I don't remember the lengths you'll go to in order to ensure the safety of those you care for?"

 _There_ it is.

"— I just don't think all _this_ is needed."

"I'm not sure I quite understand," Obi-Wan says, the moment he _does_ , expression turning openly innocent.

"Master, stop _ignoring me_." Before Obi-Wan can so much as turn towards the voice, Anakin is in his space, one hand pressed into the small of his back as a similar pressure prods at his mental shields and — oh.

Well. It's been a while since that instinct has kicked in. How embarrassing. Obi-Wan glances over apologetically as he flattens the shields between them, offering a quiet, "Apologies, Dear One. I'm afraid I was quite… preoccupied."

Anakin's gaze snaps protectively from Satine to Obi-Wan, but the creep of possession melts away when Obi-Wan steps into his hold, saturating the bond with relief. Obi-Wan can _feel_ Satine's critical gaze sweeping between them, the tick of her thoughts falling into place like gears slowly grinding to an unknown goal. It just sparks more of his own amusement, flushing the rest of the lingering concern-doubt-claim into the Force.

< Oh. > It's just a small thing, but Obi-Wan is thankful to feel it at all after the discomfort of being so long alone in his thoughts. < Your fault. >

< I _have_ apologized. >

"Ignore them," Padmé announces from somewhere to his left and suddenly Obi-Wan remembers the entire reason he was alone in the first place. She glides regally around to fill out their circle between Anakin and Satine. A smart decision, even before Anakin's mechano-arm tightens at his hip, tugging them flush with the obvious intent of keeping him there. "It's not you," she continues, turning towards the Duchess with a wry twist of her lips, "they just forget other people exist, sometimes."

" _Padmé_ —"

"Oh hush, Ani, it's sweet," she declares, brushing a hand against his shoulder with the ease of familiarity.

"Padmé, lovely as always," Obi-Wan greets with a wry quirk of his lips, watching her turn the affectionate gesture into an excuse to subtly run a hand through Anakin's still rumpled hair. Force help him, the man has clearly done _nothing_ about his appearance since —

Satine's sharp inhale brings his thoughts up short. "You _meant_ it?"

"Of course I did," Obi-Wan mildly returns.

Padmé's gaze skips rapidly from the Duchess to Obi-Wan and back again, clearly piecing together their previous conversation in a matter of seconds.

Anakin, of course, just gives a wicked grin as he turns to Obi-Wan. "What was the phrase, Master?" he purrs, intent bleeding unfettered into the bond, " _Mhi solus… dar'tome_?"1

Obi-Wan, at least, has been prepared for this since their reunion and doesn't fight the kiss he knows is coming. It's probably the alcohol, he thinks with a sort of dizzy spark of humor as they part, heat creeping up his neck when Anakin turns back to the women, rakishly proud of himself. Padmé's expression is exasperated, which is… really quite fair. Satine, however, appears to be reconsidering her worldview over the rim of a glass she didn't have a minute ago.

"… Well," she begins again, shrewd gaze sliding from the hand at his waist to Anakin's still-too-red lips and dryly concluding, "I _have_ heard a good deal about the two of you raising warriors."2

It's _definitely_ the alcohol, Obi-Wan concludes of the lingering flush in his skin. Padmé, at least, has the grace to cover her chuckle with a hand. Anakin, of course, just barks a short laugh, barely allowing Obi-Wan's equally dry, "They are _hardly_ warriors, Duchess," to be heard.

"I'm sure it's only a matter of time." It's a little more difficult to determine her intent this time. In the Force, Satine's presence spikes with slight bitterness. In the present, she raises the flute of sparkling alcohol in vague salute and knocks it back a little harder than the beverage was intended for, he's certain.

Padmé, ever the politician, cuts in with a wry, "It's honestly refreshing to find someone _without_ an opinion on their married life."

Obi-Wan _doesn't_ choke on his drink, but it's a near thing.

"When did I say I had no opinions?" Satine crisply returns, attention snapping quickly to Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan _alone_. He has just enough time to swallow before she starts in. "I suppose this explains why you didn't stay, at least."

"You know very well we were in the middle of a war, _Highness_."

"Which makes your efforts all the more _appreciated_ — if misunderstood," Satine huffs, somehow turning gratefulness to insult. "You could have _said something_ ," she says again, the repeated statement taking on an entirely new meaning this time.

Obi-Wan frowns. "There was nothing _to say_ —"

"You left the guest room in _shambles_ —"

"Hey! We paid for that!" Anakin finally interjects, unfortunately dragging both participants from their sniping to stare balefully at him instead. "What? We did! Master left more than enough credits—"

"Do you have any idea what it's like to walk into a room that looks like a _tornado_ has gone through it, only to find a small pile of credits and a 'sorry' hastily scribbled on flimsi?" Satine all but _hisses_ into the space between them.

Padmé stifles another laugh with a bite of her lip and a hand to her mouth, eyes darting between combatants.

"Duchess—" Obi-Wan attempts, stops short, and leans closer, " _Satine_ , please understand—"

"Oh, I _understand_ ," she pronounces, straightening away from Obi-Wan's invasion with a gesture of her drink in Anakin's direction. "Or I thought I did. Master Jinn certainly left out _that_ part of the padawan explanation…"

It takes Obi-Wan a second to realize the strangled noise her words spawned came from his own throat. Anakin, of course, leaps into his lack of offense with a curt, "I haven't been his padawan in _eight years_ —"

Which does approximately _nothing_ to stop the pointed roll of her eyes and the sharp redirection back to Obi-Wan. "Honestly, I thought better of you, Kenobi."

"I'm starting to think that's a _lie_."

"Skirting _Jedi_ doctrine — not just _Republic Law_ —"

"To save your _life_ —"

"And I _appreciate_ the result, of course," Satine says in every way that implies vehement disapproval. "But I _don't_ appreciate being left alone with the woman who previously tried to _kill me_ —"

"Your _sister_ —"

"— while the two of you spent half the night getting blackout drunk in a dive bar and the other half _apparently_ doing Force knows _what_ to one another—"

" _Satine_!"

"— without the courage to even admit it was happening!"

Padmé draws a long sip from a newly acquired glass.

Anakin snickers unhelpfully.

Obi-Wan draws a slow breath and shunts embarrassment and indignation into the Force. "We did no such thing."

Satine's eyebrows climb steadily in silent judgment as she takes a long sip of her own drink.

Anakin's amusement squirms in the bond, an unhelpful, possessive, playful _mess_ of emotion matching the buzz of alcohol in a way that makes it all the more difficult to think straight. Obi-Wan shoots him a short glare for his utter lack of proper support before turning back to the matter at hand. "There was _nothing to say_."

"Is that so?" the Duchess hums with another, slow trail of her eyes from the hand at his waist to Anakin's… _obviously mussed appearance_.

< You couldn't at least _clean up_? >

"I don't know what you're talking about, Master," Anakin announces seemingly out of the blue to their small group, "I've received nothing but compliments since we—"

" _Anakin_!"

"—spent some time together?" Anakin innocently finishes, with a grin that speaks of anything but.

Padmé coughs into her glass, eyes wide and incredulous.

Obi-Wan briefly considers if he's too drunk for mind tricks.

"Well," Satine announces with all the prim finality of the scandalized, but an expression quickly turning dangerously amused, "I suppose we can't _all_ be the Chosen One, who is so obviously at your beck and call—"

" _Satine_ —" Obi-Wan warns, even as she shifts her attention all too mildly to Padmé.

"Or was he just the same with you?"

Padmé, abandoning all pretense of neutrality, huffs with a roll of her eyes and raises her glass to Satine in return. "Please. Do you know how often I had to hear him whine about how Obi-Wan _already knew_ how to clean up his messes without being asked?"

" _Padmé_!" Anakin's voice is only slightly upset, matching, Obi-Wan supposes, the content flood of pride-possession-love more than the hint of insult her words caused.

"… And that was _years_ before… this," Padmé finishes with a light gesture in their general direction.

Obi-Wan finds himself another drink. It's not late enough to think he's getting away from anything less than a gauntlet and he'd prefer a proper excuse for anything else that manages to slip out in the interim. Anakin's hold eases enough to let his fingers brush along the side of his hip. It's an absent, affectionate gesture, and probably does more to settle his nerves than the newly acquired alcohol ever will.

"That's unfair; I've known Obi-Wan since I was a _kid_ , Padmé! _Obviously_ he's used to how I do things."

… The alcohol is definitely staying.

"I rest my case," Padmé murmurs into her drink with a significant look in the Duchess's direction.

"You know, Obi-Wan," Satine drawls, glancing down at the long stem of her glass as she twirls it idly between her fingers, "I'm beginning to think my _delusional dreaming_ was of less consequence than your own."

The slide of confusion and concerned affront that slips over from Anakin is almost as distracting as the effort required to keep himself from wincing at the commentary. As always, however, Obi-Wan finds a way to manage. "There's no need for insults, Duchess."

"The fact that you consider my words insulting says more to your mindset than my own." She empties the rest of her drink in a single, smooth draught and sets the glass aside with a sense of finality.

One that Anakin, of course, chooses to completely ignore. "You know, for someone who supposedly _walked away_ , you seem pretty upset he's taken."

< _Anakin_. >

< What? _You_ wanted me here. >

"I am _upset_ , Skywalker, because I was under the impression we were capable of laying aside differences and being _honest_ with each other." Satine's intonation is every bit as prickly as the last time they were all in the same room, and Obi-Wan had been fairly certain most of _that_ was due to the blaster fire and threat of imminent death. Apparently, he's been wrong about a lot of things.

Her words manage to sidestep the protective-possessive swirl from Anakin at least. Instead, Obi-Wan feels the stretch of Anakin mulling about the presence of Satine in the Force, trying to make sense of what, to him, is a confusing and unexpected answer. Eventually he settles on, "… Obi-Wan is _always_ honest."

"There's a galaxy between _not lying_ and _the truth_." The way she says it is surprisingly… less hostile than the rest of her interrogation. Obi-Wan quirks an eyebrow out of habit more than anything, drawing her attention back to him with an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, what was I _supposed_ to think, Obi-Wan? I can forgive you Bo. I can even forgive the rescue —"

"Forgive _saving your life_?" Anakin incredulously cuts in.

Satine ignores him. "But do you really think I wouldn't notice the tension? Perhaps you forgot all of our time together, but I assure you I have not, and the more we speak, the more certain I am how very little you have changed in that time." She waves off his half-formed answer and plows on. "You came to Mandalore for me, but I thought you _left_ for something more. So _you_ tell _me_ what I was supposed to think when the next thing I heard from you came in the form of _The Senate_ — of all things — announcing your _marriage_."

"'Congratulations'?" Anakin suggests in the same moment Obi-Wan sighs in understanding.

"You thought I was _protecting_ him."

"You can't tell me you wouldn't have, if it came to that."

Offense cuts sharply through the bond. "What the _kark_ —?"

"Language—"

"No, seriously, I thought you knew each other?" Anakin insists, caught for the moment between moving into Satine's space, maintaining his hold, and, near as Obi-Wan can sense, simultaneously maintaining their distance. "Have you _seen_ the messes he gets into? And you think it was all _him_ trying to protect _me_?"

"To be fair, he kind of _was_ ," Padmé points out with a openly amused quirk of her lips. "You just happened to be returning the favor in kind, in this case."

"And you spent the next _five years_ explaining precisely _none of it_ ," Satine dryly adds with an absent roll of her wrist. "Despite being close enough to _easily_ reach out. But then, I suppose you've been busy making friends with — what was it you called them? — Seps?"

"Seppies," Anakin too helpfully offers.

"The so-called extremists with battle droids," she summarily lands upon.

"The _Confederacy,_ " Obi-Wan begins with pointed emphasis, "is hardly the _Death Watch_."

"To my understanding, they were _both_ creations of the Sith, were they not?" Satine calmly points out with one hand as the other tucks into her elbow.

"Perhaps a topic to be discussed in _private_ —" Padmé hastily attempts to redirect.

"No, it's quite all right, Senator Amidala," Obi-Wan curtly interrupts before he can push past the irritable burr of moral insult tagged to Satine's words. As usual. "The Duchess is quite right, after all. The Sith are, essentially, an extremist cult, and Maul _did_ seem all too prepared for… _discussions_ as it were. A pity we didn't get to hear him out before he made his _point_."

The familiar flash of insult narrows Satine's eyes sharply. "Bo-Katan is living proof the Death Watch was something we could deal with _civilly_ —"

" _After_ they turned on each other and I _cut Maul's head off_ ," Anakin dryly comments, looking entirely unperturbed by the sharp glare turned on him for his words.

"Setting back the Mandalorian peace initiative by _years_ —"

"And saving your life," he adds with a smirk and a small, sarcastic bow. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Vor _entye_ , General Skywalker. I have not forgotten — nor, I remind you, did I _ask_ for your intervention. _Either_ time." Obi-Wan is fairly certain Anakin's smug smirk is more from knowing he's being thanked — no matter Satine's _tone_ — than anything else. Anakin's hand drifting up to his waist, however, makes him reconsider his position.

"I think we can all at least agree it is better to _be around_ to fix our mistakes," Obi-Wan gently attempts to smooth things over again.

"Yes, I suppose I should be thankful you listened long enough not to continue such _aggressive negotiations_ with Dooku."

"The Count had several… extenuating circumstances to deal with prior to proper Treaty negotiations, I assure you, Your Highness."

Satine's gaze shifts contemplatively back to Obi-Wan, lingering there with the attention of a hunter determining which way their prey is bound to spook. "I am sure he did. And though I doubt I may ever truly know what esoteric means were used to drag him to the table, I can assure you I am glad he finally arrived — and that you _listened_ when he _did_."

Obi-Wan is pretty sure he knows where this is headed, but raises his eyebrows regardless. Padmé and Anakin share an amused glance between them, the humor of which seeps into the bond as a teasing whisper-memory of breaking windows and flinging himself through them. Honestly, he's not _that_ bad.

"But then, I hear that too was ultimately a… familial dispute," she off-handedly concludes, already turning to collect another glass from the nearest table.

Padmé makes a short, choked back noise that pulls Anakin away long enough to ensure her continued health.

"I would _hardly_ compare—"

"No, you wouldn't. Or, the Order wouldn't characterize it as such, all evidence to the contrary, of course."

Obi-Wan inhales calm, exhales troubles, and knocks back his fourth champagne since Satine's arrival.

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 5): Senator Amidala's Second Residence

" _Anakin_ —" the gasp barely escapes Obi-Wan's lips before his back hits the wall and the rest of his complaints are swallowed by a fierce kiss. Somewhere between the dim lighting and the demanding drag of Anakin's tongue against his own, it's easy to forget they haven't even really made it _into_ the apartment. The crush of heat-desire- _mine_ swarms the bond, pinning him as easily as the hand at his waist, and the purposeful roll of slim hips against his own.

< We can't — >

"You worry too much," Anakin breathes as they part, nipping playfully at lips already bruised by the rough treatment.

"I worry— ah!" Overindulgence makes the sharp spike of adrenaline-pleasure-want hazy with motion and difficult to ignore. Not that he even _wants to_ just then. "… worry just enough," Obi-Wan stubbornly finishes.

"Uh huh," says his husband with all the believability of the otherwise engaged.

Obi-Wan moves to put a hand between them and press the point no matter the delicious distraction of Anakin's lips-teeth-tongue worrying the skin at his collar only to find it caught and promptly pressed to the wall with the rest of him. "We should — _ah_ — _Anakin_!"

"Mm?" Anakin hums against love-bitten skin, knowing perfectly well the fission of pinprick pain-pleasure his teasing causes.

" _Inside_." Really, it's a small miracle Obi-Wan manages to turn a moan into a _word_. Then, Anakin tightens the hold on his hand, shifting his weight to more firmly trap it to the wall and nudges at his chin and even that miracle slips away. Anakin's teeth sink into the exposed skin along the length of his neck, and heat floods his veins.

"Always so _persistent_ ," Anakin chuckles, pressing a kiss to the abused flesh before straightening again to steal another from softly parted lips.

The bond _melts_ and the inferno of Anakin's desire cracks like a whip of image-thought-memory. Golden synthsilk over hard muscle and the simmer of _good-beautiful-mine_. The fall of auburn hair _just so_ over a slim circlet and the rush of affection-envy-want. The press of interest-desire undulating in the Force around them both — restraint like a cage. How he looks, eyes downcast and intent in the dark of a borrowed room. How he splays now, open against a wall, still resplendent in expensive fabric, but with heat under his skin, breath quick and wanting.

Then they're moving again, and by the time Obi-Wan claws his way through the flood of want-yes- _now_ , there's a door closing somewhere behind them, Anakin's mouth has caught his again and he could really have _more of that._ A tickle of affectionate laughter dusts the bond and is quickly subsumed by heat. Obi-Wan retaliates with the image-memory-feel of red lips stretched wide around a thick cock — spit-slick, bruised, and smiling easily for _hours_.

< _Your_ fault. > The thought is more amused than anything.

"Do you have _any idea_ ," Anakin pants as he breaks their kiss with a short shove and a curl of the Force that trips Obi-Wan back against something low and unmoving, "how much I've wanted to—"

< A thousand glittering attendees. A thousand gazes that _linger_ as Obi-Wan makes his rounds. How can they not, really? The synthsilk clings to every well-defined line, with just enough structure to hint at the rest. _Interest_ lingers like a fog in the Force surrounding his husband as he drifts from one conversation to another. Always affable. Always courteous. Always _his_. Anakin knows it more with every easy gesture in his direction, every curl of affection-curiosity in the bond when his thoughts drift, or he stares for too long, or he notices someone _else_ doing the same. >

"—bend you over something all. night." It's supposed to be a question, but the drive of Anakin's lust pushes the words out in a statement of fire-flame-desire. Anakin traps Obi-Wan back against the furniture at his hip, just as Obi-Wan's own hands dig eagerly into the curve of Anakin's neck and tangle into the thick of dark blond curls. Heat rolls between them in a rush of restrained desire suddenly set free. Anakin's mouth is on his again, stealing his breath with a sort of desperate urgency that sends a shiver of pleasure straight down his spine. Yes-more-yours spills into the bond with a lascivious eagerness eased by too many drinks and too many hours spent dulling interest-pride-lust.

Anakin's low chuckle parts their lips once more and he straightens just far enough to raise a hand towards the bedroom. Obi-Wan can _feel_ the intent in their bond even as his husband's brilliant blue gaze stays riveted to his own. It's _always_ a little breathtaking to witness the multitude of complexities spill through the Force when Anakin is using it, comfortable and unthinking. When he knows what he wants and knows it will be given, even without the sheer strength that thrums so powerfully through him.

Lost somewhere in the dizzy brilliance of lust-skill-desire and the roll of Anakin's hips against his own, Obi-Wan nearly misses the little, expectant gesture made as Anakin steps back. A simple roll of his wrist, and an accompanying raise of his eyebrows. Heat skims his neck and reddens his ears all over again, not from the obvious meaning, but from the too-immediate agreement that pools low in his gut and his overly-swift movements to accommodate.

< _Brat_. >

Anakin's humor sparks in the bond, but his hand presses into the small of Obi-Wan's back the moment his husband finishes laying himself over the table as requested. It's too warm, too _good_ so early, and Obi-Wan pushes back in spite of the flash of embarrassment that creeps into his conscious thought. It's immediately subsumed by the feel of Anakin's hands deftly parting the slick shining fabric for the second time that night.

"Knew you liked my ideas," Anakin purrs low in his throat when the memory of their earlier tryst spikes another well of simmering lust between them.

Obi-Wan presses a cheek to the cool surface of the table in a desperate attempt to regain some measure of serenity. It doesn't work, of course; instead it only provides more leverage for Anakin to tilt his hips up and peel skintight synthsilk down to his thighs. It's not the most comfortable position — the table is a little low for this, the pants clamp his thighs together and the little freedom afforded to his half-hard cock ultimately traps it against the table. A low groan slips out before Anakin can even force the image into his mind.

" _Must_ you—" Obi-Wan's words cut off with a sharp, strangled keen from the sudden, lube-slick press of a finger deep into him.

"You say that like you're not enjoying yourself," Anakin chuckles.

Obi-Wan is halfway through the thought of rebuttal when a pair of mechanical fingers pinch too-hard-just-right at the exposed flesh just above the waist of his pants. Another round of heat-embarrassment-desire slips out of his throat and dissolves into a moan with the precise twist of the finger already within him.

"I didn't—" he pants, seeing only what Anakin pushes through the bond, feeling only Anakin's touch, knowing only pleasure slip-sliding over an alcohol-induced haze of loose, enthusiastic lust-desire- _yes_. Obi-Wan drags a ragged breath against the flood and a second finger slides in. "I never _said_ —"

"I know, Master," Anakin immediately soothes, mechano-hand returned to the curve of Obi-Wan's hip and clamping there to hold him still. His fingers drive deeper, aggressive in every way his words aren't. Twisting and scissoring, and pumping with the ease and familiarity born of long nights spent wringing pleasure from every oversensitive _inch_ until the only things Obi-Wan knows are heat and love and _Anakin._

Uncomfortable position or not, it's impossible for Obi-Wan _not_ to arch up into each pointed drag of two – then three – fingers over his prostate. White-hot pleasure shoots up his spine, spilling in moans and desperate gasps for air. The hand at his hip pushes down with each desperate buck against the table, encouraging the too painful, too _good_ rut against the unforgiving surface until the drip of pre-cum eases the slide — but only _just_.

" _Anakin_ —"

"I know," he says again, twisting his fingers just _so_ —

" _Do_ you?" Obi-Wan manages to gasp, scrabbling for a purchase that will let him push up — only for the hard, swift press of nothing against the back of his shoulders to shove him back down.

"No, no, just like that — stay like that," Anakin says quickly, his breath catching just at the edges of the words. "You look _perfect_ like that."

"That's not—" A groan escapes before Obi-Wan can even think to withhold it or counter the rough buck of his hips up against the deliberate drag along slick inner walls. " _Anakin_ —" A sharp spike of arousal spins his vision until he sinks back on to the table and into the bond. "I'm not going to _last_ if you just keep— ah!"

Anakin's lust surges somewhere deep in the bond, and all Obi-Wan can focus on is _breathing_. The long, deliberate push-stretch-prod of Anakin's fingers drags over his prostate _one more time_ and the hand at his hip pushes down again, forcing too-much-perfect pressure against his cock, holding him just shy of completion. Then Anakin's weight shifts forward and he thrusts in with _embarrassing_ ease.

" _Ah—_ I was right, Master," Anakin groans, satisfaction coursing through the bond in waves. His hands slide up, under the bunched pile of synthsilk at the base of Obi-Wan's spine, and grip firmly just above his hips. "You really _do_ look—" Their breath hitches together as he drags Obi-Wan just the bit off the table, thrusting in to the hilt. " _Perfect._ "

It's already too much before Anakin forces his vision through the bond and Obi-Wan can watch-feel himself clench around the hard cock driving him down against the table. Every buck of his hips, every deep, slick slide, every trembling, eager clench of muscle is wrapped in lust-love-possession and looped back to him with every thrust. Obi-Wan moans hot and low, barely able to shift his arm against the pressure that never let up on his shoulders, and in that moment entirely unwilling to hide how much he's enjoying the denial.

"Mn– Master—" The words fall easily from lips too eager to share everything they already share in the flood of sensation-emotion-thought between them. "You look _so good_ like this." His grip tightens. They both know it will bruise, and Obi-Wan can't even tell which of them wants it _more_ just then. It's nothing but an overheated wash of yes- _there_ -mine-mine-mine and the dizzying need for —

" _Force_ — just like- _ha_ \- _yes_ just like that, _Anakin_ —"

< _Harder_ — >

Anakin slams in, hips smacking obscenely against his exposed ass — still the only part of him free of the elaborate fabric — and Obi-Wan gives in. It's too much to manage and he doesn't want to _try_. For one blissful moment, all he wants is the too-good, too-deep, too-intense, too-insistent drive. The feel of every claiming thrust, every over-stimulating slam into his prostate driving him further from coherent thought until the torrent of his own pleasure crashes over him with a hoarse cry.

His own climax is a dizzying mess of desperate breaths, half-broken groans, and the trembling weakness of overextended muscles unable to completely relax. All around him, a fire rages, nerves still sing, and heat sears through his veins. His husband is a blaze of pure, epicurean desire in the Force, and he can do nothing but sink down into it with a groan of acceptance.

< Are you — ? >

"Go on- _hah_ \- Dear One." His voice is shaky at best — a husky, shivery thing barely forming words — but it's enough. The heat-concern eases and he can _feel_ when Anakin loses himself to the rhythm. It's still too much — far too much — to manage, but Obi-Wan focuses on the _movement_ of his muscles instead of the overstimulated shocks of pleasure-edging-pain shivering through abused nerves, and rolls his hips back. "Just like— just like that—"

" _Master_ ~"

< Want–more–you– > _Mine_.

Biting his cheek barely gives Obi-Wan enough focus to wrap desire-love- _yours_ fervently around the desperate tumult. For a brief eternity, there's only the slap of skin to skin, the shaky tremble of abused muscles, and Anakin's desperate _need_. Then the heat boils over, and Obi-Wan can only groan as his husband holds him down and comes with a low moan of his name.

It's several minutes before either manages to right _any_ of their shields, and by the time Obi-Wan makes the effort, Anakin bats him away from the work with an apologetic press of his hand into the stiff muscles of his lower back. Obi-Wan doesn't bother withholding the small, appreciative groan that escapes with the simultaneous resettling of his sense of self and the easing of tense muscles.

"Well," Obi-Wan huffs, wincing at the unexpected hoarseness of his own voice, and gamely attempting to shift to his elbows, at least. "That was certainly… _different_."

Anakin hums agreement-pleasure-love through the bond and slides his flesh arm around his master's waist to help ease him up off the table. "In my defense," he says into an affectionate nuzzle, " _you_ got off earlier."

* * *

#### Footnotes:

  1. Mandalorian Wedding Vows, in Mando'a -- Traviss, Karen. **Republic Commando: Triple Zero** , Del Ray↩
  2. Translation of Mandalorian Wedding Vows to Basic -- Traviss, Karen. **Republic Commando: Triple Zero** , Del Ray↩



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### From the Authors:
> 
> Shout out to @faptastique ! I know it’s not exactly as described, but I hope it satisfies. ;3
> 
> Regarding the Mando'a in this chapter: It's probably not considered Disney Canon at this point, but as usual, it's interesting
>
>> _"Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde"_  
> 
> 
> or
>
>> "We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors."
> 
> So basically, it's just like Anakin's "Master and I are one in the Force!" but tailored to their audience followed by Satine being the prickly pacifist she is while also kind of making a joke at Obi-Wan's expense. ¯\\(ツ)/¯
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **See Previous Timelines**
> 
> **18 BBY**
> 
>   * Treaty Negotiations between the Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems
>   * Official End of The Clone Wars
>   * The 501st and 212th Battalions Are Officially Released to Yavin IV  
>  Anakin plays space taxi to pick them all up
>   * Discovery of Lost Jedi City in Yavin underground
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin adopt a family from Kijimi  
>  Gain First Post-Order Padawan
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin rescue some slaves from Hutt space
>   * Jedi Adopt As Many Clones As Possible
> 

> 
> **17 BBY**
> 
>   * Grand Army of the Republic Disbanded
>   * Republic Navy Re-Established
> 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep until the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
>   * Outer Rim Development and Economic Outreach Conference, hosted on Coruscant
> 



	18. In Which Obi-Wan Talks to Various People Who Might Have Been Sith Lords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin is a good husband who makes sure the cargo is properly stowed before take-off, Dooku is a protective, but useful bastard, and Obi-Wan finally gets back to Yavin. With a Special Appearance by Darth Krayt. 
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “Son of Man” by Phil Collins

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 6): Coruscant, Off-World Diplomatic Departures Hangar

"Come to think of it," Anakin says at the end of a sharp tug of a cargo tie-down, "you never _did_ tell me why we left in the first place."

"Didn't I?" Obi-Wan absently calls back, voice slightly muffled by the several boxes between them. 

Anakin straightens from his self-assigned task with a stretch, critically considering the full height of the supply crates stuffed into the cargo bay. "Well, there was something about the Force bond," he offers, raising a hand to call over the shipping manifest from the lower stack to his right. A brush of affection passes between them as he scrolls the contents of the datapad to double check his work. "But that wasn't _all_ of it… was it?"

A quiet grunt of effort precedes a contemplative thought-churn from Obi-Wan's end of the bond before the man himself slides out from between two carefully stacked columns of durasteel crates. "No," he begins, taking a moment to resettle his tunic, "I daresay it wasn't the whole of it, but — what brings this up now?"

Anakin shrugs and passes over the datapad once he finishes his check, projecting cool curiosity and faint reassurance into the Force bond. "You're leaving."

Obi-Wan accepts the pad with only a glance at its contents, his gaze settling on Anakin instead. "Thinking of joining me?" he teases gently. Concern-affection-uncertainty flickers from his end of the bond — not enough to disturb the placidity of his presence in the Force, but _there_ and open to Anakin's perusal just as easily as his own curiosity-ease-love. "I don't blame you. I somehow managed to forget how entirely _draining_ Council Sessions can be. I don't envy you the continued experience."

It prompts a short laugh at least, replacing some of the uncertainty-concern with a gentler sort of sentiment. "Please, Master, you _really_ think they're going to let me anywhere _near_ a Council Session without you?"

The faint pang of old wounds long ignored settles somewhere in the back of his chest. 

Obi-Wan sighs through the sensation, turning away for a moment to finish working through the cargo list as thought-emotion-memory churns somewhere in the distance. Anakin… hesitates. That wasn't quite the response he was anticipating, and he's not sure how to take it. Ultimately, it's the steady presence that hasn't retreated and the careful re-alignment of thought at the other end of their bond that makes him just… wait. 

It earns him an endearing quirk of the lips, at least, so he's pretty sure it's the right decision even before Obi-Wan's attention returns to him. 

"I'm _sure_ you've articulated many of the problems yourself, Dear One," Obi-Wan eventually settles on and gives a short nod towards the next stack on their list.

Anakin flashes a grin and immediately sets most of his attention back to the task at hand. "Yeah, but I was pretty much _always_ at odds with the Council." He pauses long enough to forcibly shove a particularly heavy case into place with a grunt of effort. 

"That's not _entirely_ —"

" _Anyway_ — " Anakin ignores the light swat in the bond and barrels on while dragging a tie-down over top of the newly repositioned stack of crates. "You know what I mean. And _you_ taught me how to bend the rules to get around those disagreements — pass me that — thanks." 

"I'm not sure that's _entirely_ accurate— watch your left."

"Got it." Anakin hums as he catches the connecting strap with the Force and tugs it through the ratcheting device designed to tighten the lashing all at once. "What I _meant_ is you always wanted to _work through it_ ," he clarifies, stepping back with a firm tug against the ratchet, "until one day… you didn't."

A beat of silence.

"I showed you—"

"Yeah, the _table_ , Master."

"… Oh." 

Anakin looks over just in time to catch the expression of vague surprise melt into faint embarrassment before Obi-Wan can smooth it all out into something more neutral. He doesn't get far, and it's too cute not to tease him with a brush of affection not unlike a flick of his fingers at his husband's nose. It mostly produces a droll expression, but that, too, is only amusing when he can _feel_ the flustered emotions beneath.

"Sooo," Anakin finally continues, turning with a cross of his arms to lean against the newly secured crates (and have a better view of any further slips in expression), "I figured once you're gone…" He rolls his wrist to gesture between them. 

Obi-Wan gives a shake of his head, though it's clearly not for his words. It would be obvious from the twist of his lips even without the bond. Well, obvious to someone who spends as much time watching the man as Anakin does, anyway. "I appreciate that you want to hear it from me first. However, I'm a little concerned it might prove… detrimental to improving relations."

" _Master_ ," Anakin rather convincingly deadpans… until he's sure he has enough of Obi-Wan's attention to roll his eyes and have it noticed. 

Exasperation leaks back into the Force and that, at least, is more familiar. 

"They didn't… understand my faith in you, Dear One."

"So what? They still don't."

He can practically _feel_ the quiet mantra echoing Obi-Wan's steadying inhale. 

"They may not _understand_ it any better, but they are certainly more willing to _entertain the notion_ ," Obi-Wan says, visibly settling back into a more comfortable stance Anakin fondly associates with instruction and mission briefings. "Anakin, the day we left… it was really just the culmination of many other, smaller conversations. They were… _concerned_." 

Anakin's snort earns him a sharp look that quickly melts into a sigh and the quiet sense of giving in.

"When I asked you to wait, it was because I wanted to speak with the _entire_ Council on the matter of your position in the Order."

Surprise straightens Anakin from the crates with a raise of his eyebrows. "Wait. This was all about— but you told me— I thought you _agreed_ —"

"I agreed it was too early to grant you the title of Master, yes," Obi-Wan interrupts with a small, apologetic wave of his hand for the action. "That wasn't the problem. When I brought it up in private, it was easy for them to evade a proper response.”

"To what?"

"To _how we intended to address it_."

"… So you pushed them into a corner," Anakin summarizes in dawning realization and a flush of fond pride. 

"Well, I wouldn't quite— all right, yes, I did," Obi-Wan doubles back under the press of amusement-awe-disbelief in the bond. "I just thought… that if I had something to tell you — some _roadmap_ — it would go a long way to easing tensions. You might not have yet earned the title, but… I felt it was surely something in your future. Certainly, you maintained the decorum of a Master during the Armistice negotiations, at least. Had proven yourself a capable leader." Another, brief hesitation. "Raised an incredible padawan."

Anakin stiffens where he stands, a protective rush of insult-anger rearing up from deep within his personal shields. Immediately, he knows why Obi-Wan has been so evasive about the topic. His husband's immediate press of love-pride-trust only reinforces his assessment, so it takes a minute before he can really let any of it through. It's difficult, when his first instinct is to coil protectively around the brilliant, beautiful flames of Ahsoka's presence in the Force, where it stretches through infinity into his own.

Obi-Wan takes a step closer, but Anakin raises a hand — a rush of affection-love-pride-trust-faith passes between them — and then his always-collected, always-calm master… settles protectively beside the bonfire in the bond. 

"Tell me the rest." His words are more curt than Obi-Wan deserves, but all he receives is a nod and gentle acceptance. 

"As I mentioned before, it wasn't the first time questions had been raised about our bond and the viability of it. That part I was prepared to address, at least. If I — At that time I would have been willing to _eventually_ lessen it if it—"

"I know, Master." Anakin forces himself to offer a small smile with his words. It's a little too bitter, but Obi-Wan accepts it and pushes on.

"So I was prepared for that portion. Even still, I can understand some of their… entirely valid concerns." Obi-Wan spreads his hands in an open gesture, shrugging lightly at the end. "They couldn't feel what I did, and I thought that, given enough time, I could work through that."

"And Snips?"

A rough exhale and a more firm press against the other bond, not unlike the affectionate-protective prowl of an animal defending their kin.

"The… general consensus was her decision was a reflection of your instruction." Obi-Wan can't _quite_ get the words out with an empathetic wince. "There was some dissension, of course—"

"Master Plo."

"Among others. Anakin—" Obi-Wan stops then, a hesitant, deeply concerned ache in the bond. Then, the ache, the anger, and the insult — all of it — flushes out into the Force. "Being concerned about the Force bond is understandable. Thinking it was, somehow, negatively affecting me as well is… reasonable — _wrong_ but ultimately a justified concern. Using Ahsoka's situation and your _entirely understandable_ response to it as a reason to never even _consider_ a way forward…"

Obi-Wan's indignance-concern- _love_ swirls through the bond, a flurried memory of splinters. Behind it, the small, ever-present lingering fog of guilt-uncertainty-unease that is such a staple of Obi-Wan's quiet self-recriminations is easy to recognize.

Just like that, the tension snaps.

Anakin sweeps through the bond, gathering all of the lingering worry-guilt-concern-insult-fear-anger from the dark corners of their shared space and throwing it into the open between them. It barely lasts long enough for him to step into Obi-Wan's space before it succumbs to the flash and flare of flame. He stops there with a little smirk.

"You don't have anything to apologize for, Master. You should know that by now."

Obi-Wan's expression slants wry, but there's a spark of warm humor in it. "Do I?" There's a moment after, where he seems to sober — suddenly just a Jedi tucked in the back of an old freighter, bundled in fine linens, only his discarded robe breaking the image, and then only slightly. Then he relaxes again, raising a hand with a plume of love-affection-faith and brushes the back of it fondly over the curve of Anakin's cheek. "Sometimes… I look at you and wonder what you could have been—"

"Not your husband," Anakin quips, grinning as he catches the hand at his cheek and presses a kiss into it.

A low chuckle escapes as Obi-Wan's fingers relent to his tug and happiness suffuses the bond. "Surely, there is no worse fate than that," he teases with a fond tug of loose hair. "But I do think about it sometimes, Dear One, and every time I remember… that moment in the Council. I remember —"

< Obi-Wan settles back in his chair as another Councilor joins the conversation. Normally, he would at least pay attention to _who_ , if not what they are saying, but not this time. This time, he silently tucks back behind towering mental shields to review the small maelstrom churning too slowly for fury, and trace it back to its source.

Irritation-loneliness-confusion-pride-affection-

Fear. 

Perhaps there is something to their concern, he thinks. Something unbecoming of a Councilor, to have spawned such emotion so strongly. But he remembers, also, the boil of these things from deep within, years before he ever met the man quietly filtering his emotions into the Force on the other side of the ornamental doors. 

He remembers the emptiness of being left behind. The anger of not being good enough. The pride in his abilities and the fear of never being able to improve them, to prove _himself_ to these esteemed masters, to his peers, to himself. Remembers the detached, nervous acceptance swallowed down past the collar — >

Anakin drags them sharply out of the memory, wrapping his husband in warmth, love, and persistent happiness until the far-off gaze refocuses on him. There's a subtle shift in the bond, like an easy, feline stretch, and the memory is gently dispersed. A small smile carefully breaks through and the hand resting against Anakin’s cheek slips around to pull him into a tight embrace. 

"They never deserved you, Master." His words are accompanied by an affectionate nuzzle.

A twinkle of disbelieving humor alights in Obi-Wan's signature as he returns the gesture in kind. "I think you may be biased."

"The _best_ kind of biased."

Finally, the dark mood breaks with a quiet chuckle and Obi-Wan pulls away with an affectionate ruffle of his hair. 

"I was going to say," he begins again, though his thought-words are already much lighter. "Every time I think of the Jedi you could have been, I think of that moment in the Council Chambers. And I remember all of my own concerns as I trained you and how no one seemed to remember all of the ones surrounding my _own_ training. How it seemed no one remembered the hot-headed youth no master would willingly train."

"They might have had valid _concerns_ , but that is _all_ they knew. They did not know the origin of my emotions. I _did_. They did not understand all the… damage you _were_ trying to fix. That _I_ was trying to fix. And I realized, Dear One… they never _would_. Not so long as you were their responsibility." Acceptance, faith, and a warm smile. "It was… a mess, yes, but there have been very few things in my life I have ever been more _certain_ of than the realization that this wasn't working. Not for you — perhaps not for either of us. And that wasn't going to change… at least, not without more sacrifice."

"One you weren't willing to make, anyway."

" _You_ are never a sacrifice I am willing to make," Obi-Wan agrees with a soft smile and a hint of lingering concern. It's nothing compared to what lay in the bond moments ago, but it's enough a reminder of their Jedi upbringing to emphasize all the unspoken sacrifices Obi-Wan _himself_ made. "When I recognized that, I knew we had to leave." He shrugs lightly, as if it hadn’t been one of the most important decisions of his life. 

"Their loss," Anakin announces with a grin, thoroughly enjoying the vaguely surprised exasperation he receives in turn. 

“I have to admit, I expected more…" Obi-Wan gestures between them, brushing against the bonfire in the bond.

"Anger?" Anakin suggests with an easy shake of his head before Obi-Wan even finishes his confirmation. "I mean, they were wrong and I'm pretty irritated they treated you like that, but—" He shrugs. "Now I have you. And it's really sweet and honestly kind of hot you got so angry on my behalf, so… fuck it? I clearly won. No reason to rub it in."

Obi-Wan's (only slightly) choked-back laughter is more than worth the unearthing of painful memories. 

They fall back into their previous work with the ease of people long since used to each other's rhythms. It's a simple task: re-settling the various crates delivered over the week by both Alderaanian and Nabooian couriers — and parsing through the multitude of official documentation to accept the donations and ensure legal exportation from the planet. Anakin is more than content to leave the latter for Obi-Wan while he shifts the crates around by weight and straps them firmly into place. It's not as though they have a top-of-the-line freighter available, after all, and it's entirely too likely even more will end up shoved into the cargo bay before the ship lands on Yavin, if his guess as to his husband's flight plans are in any way accurate.

So, twenty minutes and four crates into bolts of Nabooian fabric, Anakin looks up from the lashing to cast an assessing gaze over the remaining space, and asks, "How much do you expect from Mandalore?"

It draws a rather _distinct_ sensation of alarm-confusion that sprouts whenever he manages to catch his husband entirely off guard. "… None?" Obi-Wan manages after a moment's scramble for context, looking up from the datapad to catch his gaze. 

Anakin gives one last tug on the ratcheting strap before replying. "Really? Nothing at all? Seems a little out of character."

Obi-Wan's expression goes dry. "Well, for one thing, that would require _actually stopping in Mandalore_."

"You're not going to?"

"I wasn't planning on it, no," Obi-Wan drawls, his tone a mixture of amusement and confusion perfectly echoing the swirl of it in the Force between them. 

Anakin pauses long enough to glance between the remaining crates and the low stack Obi-Wan has folded himself atop of, quickly re-analyzing the space requirements in line with this new information. It's… unexpected, though, so he offers a distracted, "I'm pretty sure Satine wanted you to stop by, though?"

"Satine wants a lot of things."

The bone-dry delivery, more than anything, tears an unexpected laugh out of him before Anakin even has a say in it. Not that he cares. At the other end of the bond, there's a wash of mirth and nothing more. 

"All right, all right, but seriously, Master, Serenno is _already_ a detour—"

"I hadn't decided on that yet."

Anakin pauses partway through hauling the last set of crates into position to glance incredulously over his shoulder. " _Master_. You've been thinking about the Shrine and whether or not he's got any information on it for _days_. We _both_ know you're going." He turns back to the stack, and makes the executive decision to just drag them into place with a judicious shove of the Force. "Anyway, the budget review is happening and you _always_ end up—"

"And here I thought you didn't _like_ the Count," Obi-Wan says with all the skill of a man used to entirely concealing his actual thoughts from the conversation. It is decidedly less convincing when Anakin can _feel_ the fond amusement suffusing the bond.

"I don't," Anakin nevertheless confirms, because, no, he's probably never going to like the bastard that _cut his arm off_. "He's an asshole," he adds, just to be clear, before continuing with a wave of his hand towards the pad in Obi-Wan's hand. "I have some questions for Master Sifo-Dyas though. I put them on your pad. You can just pass it along when you land." Only when the last crate is properly settled does he bother turning to face Obi-Wan directly, one hand pointed accusingly at his husband instead. "That _doesn't_ mean letting Dooku load you up with _more broken droids_."

Innocence settles like a blanket over Obi-Wan as the man leans back with an utterly _convincing_ , wide-eyed expression. " _Letting_ him? I hardly think—"

" _Sure_ ," Anakin interrupts with all the disbelief he can pour into a single word. "Anyway, Mandalore?"

Obi-Wan gives a deep sigh and the faux image of confused innocence crumbles beneath the weight of some unseen exhaustion. "… She _has_ my comm information."

That's… curious. Anakin could have sworn — he tilts his head, somewhat unconsciously narrowing his eyes as he focuses on the complex mix of emotion on the other side of his bond. Obi-Wan didn't usually… back down from things like this? Avoid them, sure, but once it’s in front of him — and it had _certainly_ been front and center last night — he deals with it. Satine could be a little ridiculous, sure, but he could have _sworn_ they did the political equivalent of a friendly brawl before makeup drinks? He's… he's _so sure_ he's not wrong about that.

Which leaves… 

"This… isn't about _me_ , right?"

A startled sort of uncertainty pings the Force. "You?"

"You know I don't _care_ , right?" Anakin says, crossing his arms. "If you're friends."

Obi-Wan… hesitates. 

So, of course, Anakin barrels through. "I mean, I get it. I have Padmé."

" _Anakin_." 

Now he's getting somewhere. "And anyway, it's not like I'm not _completely aware_ of how much you _enjoy_ a good argument," he teases with a deliberate prod of humor through the bond.

This time, it's Obi-Wan who gives in with a huff and a roll of his eyes. "It's nothing to do with _anything_ , Anakin, least of all discussing _any_ part of our relationship with Satine. That does… _not_ need to happen. Ever."

" _Oh?_ "

The withering stare returns long enough for Obi-Wan to dryly retort, "I realize that is not the case between you and Padmé."

Anakin beams. 

Obi-Wan shakes his head and purposely returns his attention to the datapad. "Last night was… I suppose I expected _some kind_ of representative from Mandalore, but she admittedly caught me off guard. That's all."

 _Hm_. Anakin presses deeper in the bond as he closes the distance between them, a gentle, careful assessment of all the little shifts and shimmers of memory-thought-emotion that is Obi-Wan Kenobi. There's a hint of something… old-new-messy. "… Do you want to meditate before you leave?"

Obi-Wan tilts his head slightly, eyes and most of his attention still on the tablet as open curiosity slides between them.

Anakin smiles warmly, waiting for the moment his husband disengages from the documentation before leaning into his space. "I have time." The affectionate hand cupping his cheek is a little more expected this time. Obi-Wan's thumb brushes fondly over the curve of his cheekbone for a long moment before he receives an answer.

"I will meditate during the trip," Obi-Wan murmurs, sliding his hand around to card his fingers through Anakin's hair. “Best not to push the schedule back any more, I think.”

It's such a simple gesture, and still impossible to resist leaning into. "If you're—"

"I'm sure, Dear One."

Anakin grins and steals a kiss. "Great. I'll give you an update when you hit Serenno, then."

Obi-Wan's expression turns wry, but he says only, "Stay safe."

"Don't I always?"

### 32 BBY, Naboo Royal Palace, Guest Chambers

This is… not what he'd expected.

Obi-Wan closes his hand around the slim length of hair, but can't quite bring himself to look away. How many years has it been, he wonders, since he struggled just to be granted the _chance_ to have this piece of himself? How long had it been before the pride had mellowed? Before it was simply a part of him and not a badge of honor? 

How long before he'd started imagining life after its removal?

That, he knows, had taken far longer. It was a gentle, creeping uncertainty only in recent months. His padawan years had never been _easy_ , but it feels like the moment they became _comfortable_ , they were torn away.

It's not supposed to end like _this_.

There's supposed to be a ceremony. Newly-raised knights there to welcome him, old masters passing quiet congratulations along with new expectations. A bustle of change between his first solo missions and a new residence to himself. Time to reflect, time to rejoice, and time to find the Jedi he's supposed to be _on his own_.

"Master?"

Obi-Wan tucks his hand into his robes and rises from an elaborately carved chair to greet the small child lingering uncertainly in his doorway. "Padawan," he answers, somewhere between neutral and cool, then tries not to wince when it causes the youngling's presence in the Force to flicker and fold into itself again. "Anakin," he corrects himself, stepping close enough that kneeling down to his height won't feel strange. "Are you well?"

"… They told me to wait in here," the boy mutters, glancing further into the murky darkness behind him in a way that causes Obi-Wan to belatedly realize exactly how late it's gotten. "But you—"

"Apologies, Young One, I lost track of the time," he quickly explains and is immediately rewarded with the tentative return of warmth to the child's otherwise unassuming Force signature. Without a chance to form a proper training bond, it's the most he'll get until Coruscant. In the meantime— "The Masters sent you here?"

"I didn't want to bother you," Anakin admits with all the seriousness only children can muster, face screwing up uncomfortably at the end. "But they said—"

"Your place is at my side," Obi-Wan finishes with a knowing, half smile. It comes with the repeated realization of exactly how far over his head he's landed. The Council hadn't wanted to train the boy in the first place and, now having traveled halfway across the galaxy under the threat of a resurgent Sith presence, view the entire enterprise as, perhaps, _necessary_ but not something they even have the time to address. Which leaves a literal vergence in the Force to a newly-raised Knight and the wishes of a dead man. He passes the tangle of thought-emotion wrapped around _that_ whole mess into the Force with barely a blink for the effort. He has enough to focus on before him. "They _are_ right about that, Anakin."

His young padawan frowns with all the uncertainty he barely remembers by that age. Having it, certainly, but _showing_ it, not at all. 

"They're _rude_ about it."

A short, disbelieving chuckle escapes before he can quite choke it back. 

Force, what _has_ he gotten himself into?

"Perhaps," he allows, indulging, for a moment, in the spark of humor holding him to the present in all the ways his master always reminded him to remain. "But let's keep that between us, Dear One."

Anakin's smile echoes in the Force between them.

### 17 BBY, 1st Month: Yavin IV, Jedi Ruins, Newly Renovated Training Rooms

"Seriously, Master, we can't just… _not_ have a ceremony," Anakin announces with a huff and a crisp, downward swing of his training saber. 

"A ceremony for _what_?" Obi-Wan sighs, unable to turn a critical eye away from the form work. Anakin hasn't needed his critiques for _years_ — the man is a veritable _sponge_ for battle tactics and saber forms and has been since he was _ten_ — but that doesn't mean he's ever stopped _watching_. Doesn't mean Anakin doesn't _encourage_ it, either. For all the wrong reasons, Obi-Wan would argue, even knowing at least half of them are shared. 

It's a struggle.

Anakin's smug, knowing hum in the bond doesn't help. Still, he throws himself into the next sequence — Form IV this time — testing the open space with wide, Force-enhanced sweeps, and acrobatic deflections. "For graduation, _obviously_." It's been ten minutes of this already and the man isn't even out of breath. Obi-Wan wouldn't expect it of him normally, of course, but Anakin has been making _quite_ the effort in the Force — throwing himself all over the spacious, stone room and the strangely familiar padded flooring. 

The extensive, underground ruins are a veritable well of curiosities on the best of days, providing strange insights on the Jedi Order — and the galaxy itself — thousands of years prior. The moment they'd set foot in _here_ , however, its intended use was _more_ than obvious. Making the time to clear it out, reinforce the structure, and re-route power, of course, was less of a priority when it was mostly just the two of them and one or two refugees who largely needed to study meditation, theory, and the most basic of Force manipulation. The rapid addition of pupils, once war-torn people the galaxy over had enough time to look around and wonder what in the Sith Hells they were supposed to do _now_ , had been… unexpected. 

So the practice rooms became a priority and this sort of conversation all too common between them. 

"Anakin," Obi-Wan begins again, one hand unconsciously smoothing his beard as he continues to observe the — now rather excessive — Force-assisted tumbling. " _We aren't the Order._ We're barely a _colony_. And even if we _were_ , no one is going to be ready for that sort of thing any time soon."

"Ugh— you're so _stubborn_." Anakin throws himself to the floor from nearly ten feet up, landing with a rather dramatic, if muffled, thump. "Padding's fixed," he announces with a breathless grin, pushing himself into a sitting position. "They're going to need _something_ to look forward to—"

"I really don't think—"

"Do _you_ want to train them forever?" 

Obi-Wan pauses. Then steps over to offer his husband a hand up. "A surprisingly salient point."

"Yeah, it's _almost_ like I've trained people before." Anakin clasps his forearm with a huff and drags himself easily to his feet. "Shocking, I know."

Obi-Wan just turns away with a shake of his head — and calls a training saber over from the wall. The familiar thrum of _excitement_ rolls between them before he even finishes turning back around. It's difficult _not_ to radiate all the fondness and pride that sprouts up when Anakin takes an easy step back and raises his saber into Soresu's distinctive opening stance with a roll of his wrist and an eager, teasing grin. 

It's tempting to reciprocate, but they don't have the time to spend on so thorough a match, so he draws up, closing his guard with a taunting raise of his eyebrow. "The moment we introduce ceremony," he says, darting in with the precise thrust of Makashi's less regimented flow, "we become an Order."

Anakin stubbornly dodges out of the attack — side stepping to catch his blade at the last second and push it back at an awkward angle instead. "The moment we started _teaching_ , we were an Order."

"You _know_ that's not—" Obi-Wan tucks _into_ Anakin's guard, breaking the stalemate with a saber-to-saber shove.

"We gave them _padawan braids_ , Master." Anakin sweeps his attack aside with continued, stubborn adherence to Form III's circular movements. 

It would be more distracting if Obi-Wan hadn't forced his attention with his own, lesser-utilized choice of Form II. " _You_ gave them braids."

"You didn't stop me."

"That is _hardly_ —" A flick at the tip of his blade, and even _knowing_ what's coming doesn't keep the training blade from flying out of his hand when Anakin catches his wrist. "Point." The amount of smug satisfaction is a _little_ over the top, Obi-Wan thinks with far too much fondness as he calls the blade to his hand again. "Even if we _do_ … 'graduate' them," he concedes, walking the circle of their duel with a contemplative spin of the newly returned hilt. "I am not convinced a ceremony is best. Would not graduation itself suffice?"

"Did that work for _you_?" Anakin says as he catches and turns aside his master's renewed push.

Obi-Wan darts back from the counterattack, twisting immediately back into Anakin's guard and breaking it open just long enough to tag a collarbone before the blade gets beaten aside and he's on the defensive again. He raises his eyebrows pointedly and dances back in a flurry of blocks. "I believe that was a point."

"I believe that was _avoiding the point_ ,” Anakin snarks back, pushing the sudden burst of offense with a series of overhead strikes. 

"I don't see—"

"Even _I_ had a ceremony, Master," Anakin interrupts, forcing Obi-Wan to ground himself more completely against the push of his weight into the attack. " _You're_ the only Jedi I know who didn't."

Breaking form and slipping back into Soresu is far too easy, but it _also_ allows Obi-Wan the time he needs to resettle himself against the onslaught. “That is _hardly_ relevant,” he retorts with a sharp spin of his saber, effectively breaking the movement long enough to slip back into a second form guard once more.

Anakin spins with the motion, quickly recovering a walking guard so he can match Obi-Wan’s pace. “Why is everything about _your_ past irrelevant, Master?” 

Obi-Wan somehow keeps the tug of a frown from his lips, but some of it clearly passes through the bond, given Anakin’s renewed push. Soresu doesn’t really have an offensive aspect — it’s usually supplemented with Ataru movements for anything beyond the more complex counters — but, somehow, Anakin twists the circular sweeps designed to deflect into something seemingly intended to raze shields instead of provide them. Muscle memory, more than anything, saves him from simply stopping to _watch_. 

“Maybe _you_ don’t remember,” Anakin presses between attacks. “But _I_ do.” 

It’s not that Obi-Wan doesn’t remember, because how could he _not_ , but that he’s spent years working to move past it. Still, he’s a little surprised that it apparently made an impression on _Anakin_. He’s maybe a little fond as well. 

“I still don’t see how that’s relevant to the students we have now, Anakin.” 

“Because, Master,” explains Anakin, “I think our padawans should cut their own braids as part of their ceremony. It can be a symbol of them being able to take care of themselves from that point on.” There’s a definite wave of fondness in their bond this time, as Anakin continues blithely on. “After all, _you_ had to cut your _own_ braid, and you didn’t cut _my_ braid—”

“ _Grand Master Yoda_ presided over your knighting,” Obi-Wan reminds him exasperatedly. 

“But it wasn’t _you_.” There’s a definite pout in Anakin’s voice. Sometimes Obi-wan is torn between deep affection and wondering where he went wrong. 

“Anakin—” Obi-Wan cuts himself off with a sudden, forward thrust into the swirl of Anakin’s blade, knocking him out of rhythm and sending him stumbling back several paces as a result. The man his padawan became is an impressive, unyielding flurry of skill, talent, and sheer drive, but as intriguing as the on-the-fly rearrangement of Soresu _is_ , ultimately, it is not what the form is _meant to be_ , and thus something a true master of it can break. 

Obi-Wan chuckles into the pause, rolling his wrist as they pace around each other and Anakin, in all his beautiful stubbornness, holds to Soresu’s walking guard. There’s no clear moment between them, no subtle tell or obvious shifts that come before he darts in again, but he knows the moment he moves that Anakin has already anticipated him. It’s a thrilling, familiar rush of adrenaline that matches him step for step in every slash, parry, and dodge between them. A simple, mindless rush of affection-fondness-pride-familiarity pushing back and forth until it flows like the Force between them. 

For all his attempts to curtail this session to something short, neither gives way to words, nor the increasing minutes they spend on an inconsequential, spur of the moment spar. It’s too comfortable, this struggle between them. No matter the forms, no matter the stakes, they flow together, against, and apart, always in the same way and now, with the bond wide open, intent, images, and possibilities out in the open for both to see, the flow envelopes them ever more tightly than it ever did on the battlefield.

In many ways, _this_ was their language long before secret hand signals and overflowing thought-emotion-memory. 

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month: Castle Serenno, Count’s Private Study

“You _left him there_?”

Obi-Wan glances up from the soft glow of numbers hovering in detailed columns and endless rows over the large desk. Across the wide surface of polished wood, Dooku holds himself like some strange mix of a king at court and an old bookkeeper. It’s a little difficult, after so many years, to determine which is the stranger fiction. 

“You say that as if I left him in the middle of a _battle,_ ” Obi-Wan dryly points out with an accompanying raise of his brow. 

Dooku presses his lips together and leans the tablet held in his right hand against the edge of his desk. “… You left him with the Order,” he eventually answers, “you may as well have.”

Obi-Wan just barely refrains from rolling his eyes and returns his attention to the needlessly complex spreadsheet the Count had placed before him the moment he made his request well over an hour ago now. “As I recall, the only people who have tried to kill us in recent memory were all directly connected to _you_.”

“That you are aware of — _Kenobi_.” The way Dooku says his name feels entirely too much like the exasperated Grand Master he never was. Obi-Wan is a little chagrined to realize he’s grown rather _used to_ the tone. “You left him on _Coruscant_ , with a Sith Shrine you _barely_ researched.”

“Yes, that _is_ why I made this unfortunate pit stop, if you recall.”

Dooku’s stare is withering. “We both know Skywalker won’t leave it alone long enough for any investigation to actually get anywhere.”

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes, of half a mind to actually engage the argument before he notices something in the tidy columns of numbers. He reaches forward suddenly, scrolling quickly through the rows and flicking back to the summary briefly. “Did you — I can’t just _not_ have medical allocations—”

Dooku scoffs. “You wildly over-budgeted for it — _again_.” He gestures with the tablet towards a lower row. “And it’s not missing, I just reduced it—”

“To practically _nothing_. Is this how you run the Confederacy? I could have sworn—”

“You know very well I haven’t the time to babysit their every resource allocation these days,” Dooku huffs. “It is _plenty,_ Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan sits back in his chair, glaring across the way. “It’s hardly plenty, _Count_. It completely invalidates the entire rest of the budget. I might as well revert—”

“Because you have not yet reviewed your foreign aid projections.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “… You know Anakin hates it when you do that.”

“And I’m sure he hates me even more every time one of your men survives a wound you otherwise haven’t the proper equipment to treat.” The Count gives an offhanded wave for Obi-Wan’s secondhand insult. “ _You_ , however, are far more reasonable.”

Somehow, Obi-Wan manages to repress the urge to sigh and slides the screen between them back to the detailed report with far more calm than he actually feels in that moment. “I have limited space,” is all he says, however.

“Yes, pity,” Dooku absently agrees, returning his gaze to the contents of the tablet. “It looks at though you will have some time on your hands in the near future, however.”

Because of course he’s decided to start digging through the rest of the pad that doesn’t concern him. Obi-Wan passes a hand over his beard again, pressing irritation-exasperation into the bond and feeling it dissipate over the distance. It’s actually _disconcerting_ to be able to feel the sheer _space_ between him and Anakin. Even still, a very faint thrum of warmth echoes through him. It can’t be in any way a response, but it’s comforting to think of it as such. 

“I don’t actually know when they intend to send the observer,” he says into the contemplative silence of their self-assigned tasks. 

“With your husband, obviously,” Dooku immediately writes off.

Obi-Wan allows himself a single, pointed raise of his eyebrow, but otherwise keeps his attention on the numbers. Mild irritation and something… else passes into the Force. He tries not to linger on the concealed emotion; Dooku was a Master once, and if he doesn’t want the emotion known it simply won’t be. During the war, emotion tangled within him as a Darth, only escaping with each swing of his blade, or in a searing burst of painful lightning. Now, occasionally, Obi-Wan finds he can catch the wisps that fade into the Force and wonders if he’s _meant to_.

“They are not exactly talented at maintaining particularly _gifted_ hyperspace pilots,” the Count dryly announces with an equally pointed look across the desk. “Although, I suppose I won’t be surprised when they inevitably attempt to track down the last one they had.”

“Anakin is _hardly_ interested in giving those routes out.”

“Nor is he the only one capable of it.”

“And how _is_ Master Sifo-Dyas these days?” Obi-Wan hums, straightening in his seat as if it’s anywhere near the casual commentary he’s attempting to play it off as. “I notice he has not joined us yet.”

Dooku’s gaze drops to the tablet again, no doubt, Obi-Wan thinks, to Anakin’s requested musings for the elusive Master. A beat passes in silence. “… Willing to look at this mess, no doubt,” he eventually exhales. There is a conspicuous absence of anything in the Force between them during the pause that follows another contemplative review of the information. “I assume, given your husband’s atrocious sense of limits, much of this is to do with one of your padawans?”

Obi-Wan sets his jaw against the need to correct Dooku now that they finally seem to be on the same page once more and says only, “We received some updates before I left, yes. Ahsoka expressed some concerns—”

“I am sure she did.” It’s a far more neutral statement than Anakin has ever received, but then, Dooku seems largely unconcerned with _that_ part of Ahsoka’s connection to _his_ lineage. Obi-Wan once again resolves not to think about it too hard. “Caje, wasn’t it? He’d be around 16 now, wouldn’t he?”

“… He is,” Obi-Wan answers while dismissing the projected spreadsheet. This is far more important, as far as he is concerned. “Why is that relevant?”

Dooku’s expression is surprisingly amused. “Sifo-Dyas wasn’t that much older,” is all he says, however, pushing away from the desk and gracefully rising from his chair with all the pomp and circumstance the movement never needed. “Come. I am sure he’ll want to look over Skywalker’s concerns before dinner, and in the meantime…” He glances over meaningfully. “Well, I seem to recall an article or two of Plagueis’s that might interest you.”

Warning slides through the Force, rolling against his shields like the sea building before a storm makes landfall. 

Obi-Wan stands with a nod, tucking his concern-worry-foreboding into the bond and surrounding himself with curiosity instead. “Then by all means,” he murmurs with a grand gesture for his host, “lead the way.”

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month: Yavin IV, Receiving Clearing

Exiting the ship is like walking full force into a wall of water. Perhaps one day, Obi-Wan will even get _used_ to it. As it stands, he immediately regrets keeping his outer robe in place, and has to give himself a moment to draw breath in the humid heat. 

The moment passes in a rush of men jogging in from the trees. Some pass by with a yell, a wave or a simple nod. He may not have acclimated to the heat and humidity just yet, but somehow pulling his hood back to return the greetings feels like he’s been doing it his whole life. Yavin may be where he lives, but his men, the people here — _they’re_ home.

“You actually left him behind, eh?” 

Obi-Wan pauses at the bottom of the ramp, glancing over in mild surprise to find Hett, of all people, idling, arms crossed, paying no mind to the steady flow of people and equipment into the freighter’s cargo bay. No, all of that striking attention is reserved for him and him alone. The feral gaze should be disconcerting, but after the trip he’s had, Obi-Wan merely feels relief to see the man without his mask. 

He’d wonder when the predatory gaze of a fallen Jedi became a _relief_ , precisely, but at this point he knows far more people that make him warier than _this one_ to bother. 

“I did not _leave him_ ,” Obi-Wan nevertheless rejects with a wry twist of his lips. 

“Suit yourself,” Hett announces with a roll of his shoulders and an ever so slight quirk of his lips Obi-Wan is _still_ trying to discern the meaning of. “Who’s he bringing back with him?”

He’s barely a few minutes planetside and already wishing Anakin had taken this run instead. Obi-Wan exhales quietly, allowing some of his exasperation to slip into his expression before turning away to catch a passing vode by the shoulder. “Ah- Trapper, you’re still on the loading bay?”

Obi-Wan’s surprise doesn’t go unnoticed, of course, but Trapper can’t feel the cool press of irritation and impatience pass into the Force behind him. The man _does_ glance past his shoulder to the unnerving stillness of the former Jedi behind him, but offers only a dry sort of amusement in response. “Cody figured you’d need the extra hands, Sir.” 

The stillness shifts to exasperated amusement and Obi-Wan exhales a quiet chuckle. “It seems I’m becoming predictable.” 

“‘Becoming’, Sir?” Trapper’s expression is far more open and wry than it ever was during the war, but even still something of a soldier’s stiffness remains in how he turns only his head to nod towards the cargo bay. “I should head in — you need something?”

“Apparently, I’ve been pre-empted,” Obi-Wan sighs with another pat of Trapper’s shoulder before he turns away, releasing the man to his task. 

“C’mon,” Hett announces as they turn towards the forest and the hidden pathways tucked into the underbrush, “we’ve got some time before Tano drops the kids on you.”

“Time I’m apparently to spend with you?” Obi-Wan dryly comments, for now resolving to ignore the stuffy heat and beads of sweat already trickling down his neck, to slip his hands more comfortably into the sleeves of his robes before him.

“Better now than later,” Hett all too keenly comments as they pass into the thick foliage. Never once has he let Obi-Wan believe him anything other than an all-too-observant predator. “Find what you were looking for on Serenno?”

Obi-Wan knows his expression is a bit too openly wry, but honestly it’s a damn miracle _Dooku_ didn’t spend half the time needling him about _Hett_. Or rather, _Tyranus_ didn’t mutter disapprovingly about _Krayt_. It would be more of a headache if he ever thought anything would come of it — separate of vociferously declared professional differences, of course. So Hett’s preoccupation with his pit stop is less worrisome and more a familiar sort of a tiredness. 

“Some of it,” he eventually allows. “There seems shockingly little information on what appears to be a rather brilliant feat of Sith ingenuity.”

Hett’s sideways glance is telling, but he refrains from more than the unimpressed stare. “I don’t need to hear that from you too,” he mutters while pushing aside a rather large frond to reveal a well worn slab of stone. A short flick of his wrist, the slab slides aside to reveal an open hall stripped with lights that blink on as Obi-Wan steps in. 

“So she _has_ heard of it?” Obi-Wan asks, turning back to wait for the other man to join him in the mercifully cool hall tunneling deeper at an easy slope. 

“I told you I’d give you a few days.” Hett raises his chin with the words — just the bit — and Obi-Wan finds himself radiating _faith-anticipation-understanding_ just the same in response. Neither of them knows each other as well as Anakin does either, but after four hellish years spent actively beating back fallen Jedi and active Sith, Obi-Wan is more than willing to expend the extra effort it takes to maintain _conversations_ with them instead. Moments of pride and pointed commentary included. 

“What have you found, then?”

Hett deflates slightly, giving an irritable-dissmissive wave of his hand along with a faint press of disappointment-wonder-stymied success. “She speaks — at _length_ — of such triumphs, but I believe she had no hand in it herself. The vergence has been known through antiquity, but the _shrine_ is a little more complicated. Anakin _was_ right, though, I think. If there remains any logic to the rant, the shrine was designed specifically to twist the flow to the Dark.” He pulls up short at one of the larger junctions they’ve walked through, glancing down each available direction quickly.

Obi-Wan frowns. “There’s more.”

“There’s always more,” A’Sharad grumbles, finally turning to face him again, arms crossed as he leans back against the wall. “That shrine’s been there since before we moved in, Kenobi. Long before. The manipulation was already complete by the time Coruscant became a city.”

All at once, Hett’s initial, disapproving greeting makes sense. Obi-Wan exhales quietly, dropping his hand from his beard in the same motion he presses worry-understanding-faith into the Force. “Meaning, the Temple was there to _counter_ it, not _prevent it_ and the reason Anakin only noticed anything off-putting now, after centuries of Masters passing through… is he’s _also_ right about something causing it to be more active than it has been.”

A giggling shriek cuts through their shared silence, followed by a muffled thump and something unintelligible echoing down a hall until the noise cuts off again. A soft well of comfort-home-amusement builds before Obi-Wan can even think to stifle it, and he leans around their corner to catch the tail end of a training room door sliding shut. 

“Well, get on then,” Hett gruffly announces, nodding over his shoulder as he pushes away from the wall. “Kids’ll know you’re back by now and I’ve got some packing to do anyway.”

Obi-Wan turns with the other man, echoing a soft, “ _Packing_?”

A’Sharad stops, taking a full sweep of him as if looking for some piece of information he’s missed in the intervening years. “There’s no telling when Skywalker’ll be heading back and I don’t plan on waiting that long to move out.”

“Hett—”

“I’m not about to jeopardize—”

“ _Krayt_.” It’s enough to get his attention, at least. Obi-Wan firms his stance, facing the other man directly. “I have no intentions of _apologizing_ — not for Anakin, not for the kids, and not for _you_.” Hett frowns slightly, but Obi-Wan raises a hand to keep him from interrupting. “If you don’t want to deal with the Observer the Order sends, that is your prerogative, and I will make sure you’re not bothered. However, I have no intentions of lying. You are always welcome here, A’Sharad, and we will — _all_ of us — defend your place among us.”

The silence that follows isn’t precisely _tense_ , but there’s a slow, unwinding feeling that threads through the Force between them until Hett eases his stance and inclines his head in acceptance. “I’ll keep that in mind when—”

A sudden burst of elated shrieks drowns out the rest of his words, and Obi-Wan pulls himself away to glance down the hall again, just catching the — horn tips? montrails? — of a youngling darting back into the training room. The door slams shut behind them, plunging the halls into ringing silence once more. 

A’Sharad gives an amused huff and waves him off. “Go on, I’ll get Anakin up to date.”

“That’s… probably for the best,” Obi-Wan says, offering a genial bow along with a hasty, “If you’ll excuse me,” before making a brisk exit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **See Previous Timelines**
> 
> **18 BBY**
> 
>   * Treaty Negotiations between the Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems
>   * Official End of The Clone Wars
>   * The 501st and 212th Battalions Are Officially Released to Yavin IV  
>  Anakin plays space taxi to pick them all up
>   * Discovery of Lost Jedi City in Yavin underground
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin adopt a family from Kijimi  
>  Gain First Post-Order Padawan
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin rescue some slaves from Hutt space
>   * Jedi Adopt As Many Clones As Possible
> 

> 
> **17 BBY**
> 
>   * Grand Army of the Republic Disbanded
>   * Republic Navy Re-Established
> 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep until the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
>   * Outer Rim Development and Economic Outreach Conference, hosted on Coruscant
>   * _Obi-Wan Goes Home_
> 



	19. In Which Anakin Takes Obi-Wan's Advice For Once And Of Course It's About Traps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin spends some quality time with younglings and Palpatine. It goes better than anticipated. Mace Windu’s day, however, does not.
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “I Believe I Can Fly” by R. Kelly

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 7): Coruscant, Jedi Temple, Peak of the Sacred Spire

“Are you _really_ the Hero Without Fear?” 

It’s a youngling, so Anakin drags himself out of the flow of the Force to answer.

“Shhh! Master Nemua said we’re not supposed to talk to him.”

Two younglings, apparently.

“But he’s the Hero Without Fear!” When he says it this time, small hands bunched as he turns to his companion, the small Iridonian boy seems much more confident in himself. His human friend only manages to make an uncertain and vaguely disapproving expression in return, so he turns back to Anakin instead.

“We heard you used to be a Jedi!”

“You’re older than I expected,” the human boy adds through tight lips, as if he can’t quite keep the observation to himself. 

Anakin grins. “Really?” He directs this at the second one, mostly because it’s fun to watch him startle from being addressed directly. “Why?”

The zabrak boy, of course, jumps in instead with an earnest, “Well, there’s a statue in the library for Master Kenobi.”

“Huh, really?” That’s… unexpected. Not that he’s about to drag younglings into _that_ conversation—

“Yeah, and the plaque says he left with his padawan.” 

Anakin balks. “Wait. What do you _mean_ — I was a Knight!”

“I _told_ you we shouldn’t have talked to him,” the second boy says, gesturing broadly in his direction in clear imitation of elder masters. “Look, see? He’s getting emotional.”

"Just like in the stories!"

“Excuse me, _what_ —?” The boys look up at him in blinking wide-eyed unison, and he’s just able to shunt surprise-indignance-bemusement into the bond instead of letting it out into the Force. They are _Jedi_ younglings, he reminds himself with a shake of his head as he pushes away from the railing to face them directly. "You know, being surprised isn't against Jedi tenets," he drawls, lips quirking as he watches them glance ponderously between each other. "Wait…what stories?" he says instead of any of the other indignant questions still swirling through him.

The zabrak boy straightens importantly, brown eyes alight and eager to demonstrate his knowledge. "You know, all the ones from the war. They're always about all these crazy plans and lightsaber battles and starfighters —"

"We shouldn't glorify violence, Aaxos."

The zabrak — Aaxos, apparently — huffs and just barely refrains from rolling his eyes when he notices Anakin's continued, quietly amused attention. "Yeah, well, Master Kenobi's stories are all just _talking_."

"They are _not_."

"Oh?" Anakin can't help interrupting this time, because, really? "What kind of stories did _you_ hear?"

The human youngling presses his lips together and straightens with a cross of his arms that seems to expect long robes that aren't there. Force, this _child_ holding himself like a wizened old master is going to give Anakin an aneurysm from continuously shunting his humor through the bond, where it can't offend. "… He _did_ negotiate the Great Compromise," the youngling eventually settles on, "so, _obviously_ we study that, but that doesn't mean he's not mentioned in the battle histories."

"Ugh, those are about the most _boring_ way to learn," Aaxos announces, pulling a face. "If you would just _ask_ the masters—"

"We are here to learn of the _Force_ —"

"Is the Count's bust still in the library?" Anakin cuts in, his amusement — now drifting openly into the Force — more than enough to turn both younglings’ attention back to him. 

"The Count?" Aaxos echoes blankly.

"He means Master Dooku," the human boy answers in uncanny imitation of the man in question.

"Yeah, you kind of remind me of him," Anakin continues, indulgently enjoying the offended shock mini-Dooku can't _quite_ keep from his Force signature.

"Wait, who's that?" Aaxos insists himself back into the conversation, swinging his attention back and forth between them. "Was he in the war too?"

“I mean…” Anakin’s expression is mischievous. “He _started it_ , so yeah, you could say that." 

Sharp spikes of realization and embarrassment radiate into the Force. Anakin quickly claps his hands together, emitting cheerful ease back at them before he can think to stop himself. They may have grown up in the Temple, but it seems Force sensitive younglings aren't _quite_ so different from one end of the galaxy to the other, as both immediately look back to him, flushing embarrassment, nervousness and anxiety into the Force as curiosity overcomes their signatures instead. 

"Anyway, where are the two of you _supposed_ to be?"

Mini-Dooku's expression pinches as his friend beats him to answering. "… Master Nemua said we were to meditate until lunch…. but this is much more interesting!"

Anakin's presence shifts to amused again as he turns to the human. " _Both_ of you?"

"… Aaxos talked me into coming here instead."

"You were curious too!"

"All right, all right," Anakin corrals them with a soft laugh and a gathering motion. "I think I have a solution, then, if you want to join me."

"… Join you?" 

"Of course!" Aaxos immediately agrees over his friend's skeptical looks. 

"I don't like this—"

"Don't be so _uptight_."

"Who's uptight? He _left the Order_." 

"It's just joint meditation," Anakin offers, the corners of his lips quivering with repressed laughter. "We do it all the time on Yavin."

Mini-Dooku turns imperiously to his friend, the very _image_ of uptight and says, "It could be a _trap_."

Aaxos looks doubtfully between his friend and the incarnation of the Clone Wars brought to life before him. "But…"

"No, that's a good point. It _could_ be a trap.” Anakin somehow manages to wrangle his voice into something resembling the solemn contemplations of a Jedi Master. The hand drifting up to thoughtfully hold his chin is purely coincidence, of course. "And I'm sure you _already_ know what we do with traps."

The pair of younglings look to each other. Aaxos shrugs. Mini-Dooku doesn't quite frown. They turn back to him, one gaze eager, the other suspicious. 

Anakin grins. "We spring them!"

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 9): Coruscant, Office of the Chancellor

The wide balconies off the Chancellor's office are larger than Anakin remembers. 

Something about the observation feels backwards, somehow. But then, the balconies had been fairly sparse during the war. There was open air and a couple of plants, sure, but nothing comparable to the grand statues arching up from each end, projecting shade out over them as they step on to a hover-platform. The plants are on their own level now, a true garden sprawling in perfectly trimmed hedges beneath them. The small platform breaks from the larger floor and descends, taking them away from the main building — from his office of assistants, the hall of lingering appointments and, Anakin already knows, the constant hum of surveillance.

"You seem familiar with the technology." Palpatine looks up at him, a genial if mildly surprised expression in place. 

Anakin hastily drops his gaze from the ever so faint shimmer arching up over them, ensconcing the gardens from the din of the city and blurring the skyline with a hazy hologram of open skies. "Well, I've seen similar," he explains of his vague curiosity drifting into the Force between them, then reminds himself to reign it in. The Chancellor isn't the vod and certainly no more used to the press of unfamiliar emotions than any other Forceblind sentient. "It just… feels strange."

Palpatine gives a soft laugh and turns to draw him into the path by the first hedgerow. "I imagine it does," he says, giving a nod and a small wave of his hand towards the greenery around them. "A little too manicured, perhaps, for someone who's retired to a tropical planet, hm?"

"That's—" The sharp heat of embarrassment flashes over his cheeks. "That's not what I meant."

"I think that husband of yours has you too hung up on propriety, my boy." The corners of Palpatine's eyes crinkle with his teasing response, and all at once Anakin remembers how _old_ the Chancellor is. Has always been, really. A genial old man always willing to take time for him — even now, when that time is continually slipping away from him. "Surely you don't think I've _forgotten_ our little chats? Indeed, I've missed them!"

It brings a smile back to Anakin's lips. "No, I've always appreciated them, Chancellor," he says with a slight bow his husband would, in fact, be quite proud of. The gesture doesn't go unnoticed, given the Chancellor's amused shake of his head — but just for a moment, the artificial breeze feels prickly on his skin. It's there and gone again: a wisp in the ether. He's not even sure why he noticed it in the first place. 

"The bond again?"

Anakin blinks. "No, I—" He frowns, settling a hand on the hilt at his waist, and instinctively scans their immediate area for threats. Strange. He's sure there was _something_ distracting a minute ago, but now he can't place his preoccupation. Finding nothing, he gives up with a sigh and a shake of his head. "Apologies, Chancellor, I've just… got a lot on my mind, I think."

Palpatine pauses in their walk, nodding thoughtfully. "Ah, yes, all that work in the Temple. They must really be pushing you; I haven't seen you this… harried since that mess with your padawan." 

That's… not really fair, Anakin thinks with a spike of discomfort that furrows his brow. "I haven't really— Ahsoka forgave them years ago."

"And you?"

Anakin shifts back on his heels, crossing his arms against the memory. "Well, I… don't know. I probably wouldn't have left the Order if I had then, but now—"

"Ah, say no more. I don't mean to intrude." Palpatine turns with his words, sweeping out of the hedges through a hidden exit that deposits them along the long edge of the gardens instead. "You mentioned your work was something I would be interested in, and I might have gotten carried away."

"No! No, it's not— it's nothing like that." Anakin hastens to catch up, raising a reassuring hand as he joins his old friend at the half-wall enclosing the private gardens. "Please, feel free to ask!"

The Chancellor looks mildly skeptical, and for a moment just the bit uncertain. "If you're sure—"

"When am I not?" Anakin announces with a grin he almost feels, only relaxing when Palpatine's quiet laugh breaks the tension he hadn't noticed slipping back into place. 

"Well, if you _insist_ …" Yes, that's the mischievous gleam of interest he remembers from his first years on Coruscant. Seeing the expression again eases some unseen vice from his chest. "You have really piqued my curiosity, I must say. You were working on 'fixing' something? What could _possibly_ need so much repair?"

Anakin nods, eager to turn the conversation to something he can actively contribute to. "Yeah. You know that mountain in the middle of the Temple?"

"Ah, the 'Sacred Spire', I believe it's called?" 

"Right!"

Palpatine inclines his head, setting a hand against the low wall in a way that lets him lean subtly on it without giving the impression he needs to. Anakin's not sure he'd have noticed if he hadn't been watching the man closely — or hadn't been sharing his innermost thoughts and fears with the man since he was eleven. He wants to reach a hand out or insist they take a seat or… or anything at all to make the man realize he doesn't need to push himself quite so hard, but he knows better. When sheer stubborn pride is the only thing holding you up, the _last_ thing you want is for someone to insist you give in.

"I recall quite a bit about that mountain," the Chancellor contemplatively continues. "It's all throughout the histories of Coruscant and the Republic itself, if you go back far enough. Why, I even managed to track down a bauble from one of the old structures the Temple was built atop," he adds with such satisfaction, Anakin can practically feel it roll through the Force. "Such a shame how much history is lost to progress, even among the Jedi, it seems."

"Well, they had their reasons for how the Temple turned out." Before Anakin entirely realizes it, he's already fallen into the easy, thoughtful rumination that usually follow the baffled questions of young Force sensitives mired knee-deep in old ruins. "The Order histories describe the Spire as a vergence in the Force: a naturally occurring font 'from which pours the strength of the Force in whole'." He gives a brief wave for the overly flowery wording. 

"I take it you disagree."

Anakin smirks. "Well, apparently the entire High Council knows better, but, well, no one gave me that primer," he adds with a shrug, "so I had to find out when we came back and I thought the place _felt weird_."

“Weird?" The Chancellor echoes with a bemused raise of his eyebrows. 

"Yeah, like…" Anakin pauses a moment to sift through the slippery thought-feel-memory of repressed pain-anger-fear churning beneath a shimmering song of twinkling light. "… It's like…" he exhales sharply and gives and brief shake of his head. "Sorry, it's just… it's difficult enough trying to explain it to other Force sensitives. I'm pretty sure Master Koth thought I was going insane."

Palpatine gives a short chortle and for some reason Anakin suddenly feels impatient. It's there and gone again just like before, but then his friend is talking again, and the urge to investigate vanishes. "Well, I can assure you I wouldn't think the same. Explain it however you like — the important thing, I take it, is the Temple felt different when you returned to it?"

Anakin gives a quick nod. "On Yavin, we've found a whole horde of different ruins — the lowest level of which are always Sith," he begins again instead of uselessly attempting to describe the invisible, intractable _everything_ of the Force to someone who would get about as much out of it as a blind man would a description of 'red'. "If you're around them enough, you get a feel for what they're like, how they're built… and what they feel like in the Force. But we're far from the first people on Yavin, you know.

"Master thinks it's been around four thousand years since the last time Jedi had a presence there, but they sure left a lot behind. There's a shrine, a temple, or some other building over every single Sith structure on the entire place. And Jedi architecture, too, has a very distinctive feel to it. Very… cool. Still. Not… not _stagnant_ , but calm, like a stream in the shade. Sith are much… harsher. If it's active at all, it's with heat and a sort of… erratic energy. When you have both it… clashes? Kind of like two people singing off key."

Anakin shrugs haplessly, but Palpatine's expression is rapt, the older man already leaning forward with an intense sort of attention. "How utterly _fascinating_. I assume, then, that there is a way to make the two parts… harmonize?”

"Exactly!" Anakin grins broadly, a small thrill strumming through him and into the Force surrounding them both, sharing his elation-success-pride. "So when I noticed the _Temple_ felt kind of like _Yavin_ —"

"You found a Sith Shrine in the Spire?" Cold crackles through the Force: a sudden flash of skittering fear-malice that strikes somewhere behind his chest and vanishes again. "I see now why you have been running yourself so ragged." Anakin sucks in his breath, his hand tightening on the hilt of his saber — when had he grabbed his lightsaber? — as Palpatine's voice parallaxes into something distant, low, and— "… an utter dereliction of duty to address this situation without informing— Anakin?"

Reality snaps back into full motion with a rush of sound-warmth that leaves Anakin scrambling for the sweet, steadying light of his bond with Obi-Wan. A wild second of confusion gives way to bright memory and again to dull present and he inhales. Slowly. Calmly. 

"… Are you well?" Palpatine's brow furrows as he leans forward to lay a concerned hand on his arm. 

Anakin can feel the pressure but not the warmth he expects, even through the manufactured senses of his mechano-arm. He exhales, and the shadow passes into the Force. "Yes," he says, a little curtly, and quickly follows with a distracted, “Sorry, I … the Dark Side has been kind of unusually active and I—"

"You really are shouldering so much for them," the Chancellor sympathetically murmurs. The pressure increases briefly on Anakin's arm before Palpatine retracts a wrinkled hand. "But I should not be surprised, I think. The Jedi Council has long made use of you above and beyond what they demand of their own."

Anakin's brow furrows in immediate, uncertain discomfort. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Do they not forbid such… dabbling in the Dark Side?" Palpatine makes a small gesture between them that seems far too casual for the discussion at hand. "Yet here you are, having mastered its manipulation well enough to assist them in their own plight and —"

" _Mastered_?" Anakin just barely manages to squeak the word out amidst the thundering crash of offense-fear-anxiety. "Wait, no, I never said—"

"But you manipulate it, do you not?" The Chancellor's words are pointed, but somehow absent the weight that should be dragging them down. 

“I…” A pair of eyes that should be familiar flash feral yellow in his mind and Anakin hesitates. Instinctive denials catch in his throat, so he clears it. “It’s not like that. Exactly.”

“Oh?” A sense of disappointment-concern wafts breezily around the Chancellor as the man leans closer. It’s strange, Anakin thinks, to feel so much from a man normally so closed off, but he shouldn’t be surprised, he reconciles. It’s been years and they’ve barely spoken. The Chancellor is well past his prime and — “Did I misunderstand? Have you not been manipulating the Shrine on the Order’s behalf?”

Anakin swallows down his discomfort, flushing it into the bond on habit, even knowing there’s no way for Obi-Wan to parse it for him at this distance. It drifts into oblivion as a nervous laugh startles past his lips. “All right, maybe it _is_ like that, but—”

“And have you not spent a good deal of time with the only known Sith in the galaxy?”

“I— _what?_ ” 

Palpatine raises a hand placatingly and it’s all that’s needed to stem the tide of indignant fury — for now. “ _I_ know where your loyalties lie, my boy, but your husband’s trips to Serenno are not… _unnoticed_ , you understand.”

Oh. This.

Anakin heaves a sigh, and for a moment the tension washes out between them. “Look, I don’t like the bastard, but like you said: he’s the only guy around around with access to… certain knowledge. Where _else_ can you expect to get that kind of knowledge on the Sith?”

A quiet, amused sort of smirk twists Palpatine’s lips and he straightens with a genial pat of his hand against Anakin’s flesh arm. “Where, indeed? Ideally not, I should think, from so biased a source, but then the Jedi have always ignored what they do not understand.” 

The Force brushes over-around him and Anakin almost turns with the hint of interest-alarm that drifts through it but for the sudden, tight grip on his forearm. 

“You do not need to keep from me what you keep from _them_ , Anakin.”

Something heavy ripples out from the dark. He can’t place it. There’s a weight settling around him, pushing down, passing over like a beast in the depths. He can’t _breathe_. The Force trembles in its wake, tendrils reaching out to ensnare him, calling him home. 

“You’ve learned it too, haven’t you?” 

For a long moment, all he can see is Palpatine’s intense gaze. 

“The Jedi… the Sith… they are the same in almost every way. Including their quest for greater power.” 

_There._

Anakin whirls around before he finishes the thought, turning unerringly in the direction of the Temple and the Spire within it, inadvertently breaking the Chancellor’s grip. Another beat ripples low through the Force. Something easy to miss, something dark, something deceptively well-tuned and slithering over him with the oily eagerness of envy-possession-desperation. 

Something that _shouldn’t be there_.

### 14 BBY, 3rd Month (Return To Coruscant, Day 9): Coruscant, Jedi Temple Basement, Sith Shrine

"Skywalker, _what_ are you doing?"

Anakin probably should have paid _more_ attention to the Temple Guards several hallways back. They didn't _stop_ him, of course, but they did mention something about the Council. Or at least, he's pretty sure they did? With half his attention on the malingering presence drifting through the Force and no one around to ground him on his dead run through the old structure at the heart of the temple, it was a little difficult to interact with _anyone_. 

" _Skywalker_."

The force field protecting the wide open doors of the shrine was, thankfully, far easier than sentient beings. Machines always are. Made of logic and reason and —

Something smacks his mental shields with the _distinct_ sting of unimpressed authority. 

" _Hey!_ "

Mace Windu stares back, a blank mask of disapproval with a mild frown. "So glad of you to join us."

"Us?" Anakin parrots with a blink in the direction of the hall and the utter lack of anyone else there. 

Mace's gaze turns withering, but he ignores the question. " _Why_ are we down here?"

"Uh—"

"And _what_ did you do to the force field generator?"

"There was a—" Something skitters over his shields and across his skin, whipping Anakin around in an instinctive attempt to track it down. "There!" The moment his left hand lands on the hilt at his hip, the distinct snap-hiss of a second saber igniting comes from behind — utterly throwing his attention out of the curl-flow-skitter of the Dark coiling lazily through the cavern just beyond. Still, he manages to shove anxiety-adrenaline out of his nerves enough to only tighten his grip on the hilt instead of drawing his own saber as he turns back around.

Mace's attention is, surprisingly, cast over Anakin's shoulder, intent on something deeper into the cavern of the Shrine itself. The evaluating glare is… decidedly _not_ what he'd expected from the Grand Master. Nor the quiet but firm: "It's active."

"… Yeah. There's something…" Anakin trails off, turning partially back to the doorway in order to focus again on the underlying currents curling enticingly out of the dark cavern, like stinging tendrils of smoke coiling tenderly around his Force signature and tugging. A disconcerting fission of memories overlap — a comforting hand on his shoulder; a haunting, oppressive darkness, radiating light-pain-heat; and Obi-Wan's hand, gentle, at the back of his neck, drawing him close —

" _Skywalker_ —"

"I'm going in." 

The cool stillness of the Force surrounding Mace ripples quietly with his frown. "Have you listened to a _word_ I've—"

"No."

Mace steps even with him, the purple hue of his lit saber casting strange shadows as he holds it aloft before them like a shield against the energetic Dark. "We need to wait for _backup_. I sent a message on my way here."

Anakin finally pulls his attention back from the creep of dark power coiling eagerly around them, centering himself in the warmth-love-safety of the bond. "I don't think you understand, Master Windu," he says, calm in a way he's only felt when he opens himself to the deep knowing _thrum_ of the Force. The skittering presence retreats again, and although he can feel it more clearly now, he knows to hurry. "I'm _going in_." 

He turns away one last time, feeling the flare of his own presence in the Force, and the heat-flame-awe of it within and without at once. It's always like this without his husband to anchor and hold and shield him, but he sets his jaw, burrows into the bond, and slips deeper into the Force. Shadow skims his shields, dragging like the clawed caress of a predator waiting to strike, but he pushes forward, cutting through the bluster and reaching ever further, ever deeper, diving after that one skittering presence that keeps dancing back like a dangling barb to lead him deeper. 

It's a trap, obviously. 

"Did your _sanity_ leave with Kenobi?"

Anakin blinks himself back to the physical present and the flatly delivered words, not shocked to find himself deep within the yawning cavern, but surprised by the frosty yet comfortingly steadfast presence at his side. "… Master Windu?" He glances back to confirm — yep, the door to the shrine is far behind them, illuminated by the low-powered lighting in the long hall beyond. 

Mace glares back at him, but there's no real heat in it. Most of his attention stays on their bleak surroundings, the indigo light eerie in the jagged shadows of millennia-old stalactites. "You're following something," he states, with all the confidence of someone used to being right. It's never really helped that he usually _is_ — at least not as far as Anakin is concerned. "It's clearly trying to drag you in — and doing a damn good job of it now that Kenobi isn't here to stop you."

A protective-possessive heat rears up from within, but Anakin manages to catch it and twist it into something less malignant, pulling a face in the process. " _Master_ understands the need to approach things head-on sometimes," he says, unable to resist adding, "Who do you think _taught_ me to spring traps?"

The Grand Master stares back, unimpressed.

" _Anyway_ ," Anakin continues with a purposeful turn back towards his initial direction, "I've got a _vhe'viin_1 to dig out." He waves his flesh hand casually back towards his self-assigned companion. "You can come along, I guess?"

Mace doesn't grumble, but he _does_ follow. 

There's barely a whisper of movement as they push further in, their path still illuminated in the steady, violet glow of Windu's saber. Anakin doesn't bother lighting his own — doesn't _need to_ and doesn't want to deal with having to explain anything when they're taking a brisk stroll through a yawning maw of churning, slithering _Dark_. He simply moves forward, following that one eager whisper without hesitation. It's not as if he's not used to clearing the way — although it's usually for padawans and Troopers, rather than the steady but distant presence of a Jedi Master. 

"Didn't you leave for the day?"

Well, distant save for the constant interrogation, Anakin thinks, shaking off the lingering tension before it can build in the Force between them. "I did," he absently agrees. There's a shift in the currents as something _else_ goes skittering by followed by the sharp hum of a saber and the shift of the light as Mace swiftly closes the distance between them, twisting uncannily in the direction Anakin can sense the… whatever it is… heading. "I was meeting with the Chancellor when I felt it."

Mace frowns. It's not a new expression by far, but he can appreciate the level of cool evaluation in the look far more _now_ when it doesn't feel as though _he's_ the one being evaluated. Instead, the older master nods in the direction Anakin has already turned and actively keeps pace. "You felt something happening _here_ from that far away?"

Anakin nods, already expanding his connection to the Force so he can encourage the oily press of pain-want-desire-fear to slip past as they near… _something._ The violet light extends just before him, revealing only conspicuously worn runes carved roughly into the floor of the cavern and nothing more. Darkness hides the rest as the light of the hall dims quickly behind them. It shouldn't be much farther, he thinks, from the way the Force tangles in on itself in its rabid eagerness to draw them in. 

"I got back here as fast as I could," he murmurs, attention split between the absent wish for his husband's under-breath mutterings about the runes carved into the floor and the skittering creature urging him deeper. "I've been trying to keep an eye on things, so there's a chance I would have noticed eventually _anyway,_ but there's _also_ a good chance something really powerful is down here if I felt it from that far away, so—"

"You ran all the way back here, explained nothing, and dove in without a plan."

"I _have_ a plan!"

"'Springing the trap' is _not_ a plan; it's a course of action. And a terrible one, at that."

"Says the man _actively helping me spring the trap_."

It earns him a reproachful expression from the Grand Master and a surprisingly blunt, "I would have preferred it had Kenobi stayed."

"Finally, something we agree on," Anakin mutters the exact moment he walks into a slab of stone. The smell hits immediately after, and he stumbles back, coughing, a hand over his mouth to keep the taste out. Mace darts in between Anakin and the dark thing protruding from the ground before them, but Anakin manages to snag him by the forearm before he gets too far, and drags him back instead. "Don't," he bites out, pulling them back another foot before he chances drawing another, suddenly clean breath.

"What is it?" The words are curt to match the taut-wire-preparedness that sharpens Mace's presence in the Force, and Anakin would be more amazed by the level of brusque assumption of competence within them if he wasn't rapidly re-evaluating the situation.

"A ritual," he quickly explains, mechano-arm holding firm to Mace's forearm until the man relents to his pull and settles back at his side. "A new one, I think, because the blood hasn't made it far enough to smell that bad anywhere else."

"Someone managed to get in and start a _Sith Ritual_ without anyone noticing until—"

"Until I did, half a city-sector away, yeah," Anakin interrupts with a frown, attention on the bit of stone he can make out at the edge of the violet halo. "Give me some more light? Just don't get closer."

"This is ridiculous." Mace does, however, raise his arm to illuminate the low stone slab Anakin basically ran straight into. "We need backup."

The roughly carved runes continue up from the floor as jerky, imprecise slashes into the waist-high stone. It's difficult to make them out amidst the awkward shadows cast from their impromptu light source, but Anakin's pretty certain he can discern a pattern, if not the exact words or phrases being used. Whatever it is, it's definitely not the same as Yavin. It's not even similar to the inscriptions lining the hall on the way in. 

"Those look new."

Mace's sudden announcement jerks Anakin out of his own reverie. "I — Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing. None of it matches anything we saw coming in, either."

The Grand Master frowns again, but to his credit doesn't try to press forward again, instead shifting around to carefully circle the rectangular slab before them, assessing its dimensions and the pattern of abuse carved into it in one swift pass. "The stone doesn't look new and it's big enough for a pair of Wookies. Unlikely someone dragged it in here."

Anakin is shaking his head before Mace even finishes, moving to meet him in the small pool of light again. "No, the layout's a little sparse, but that's _definitely_ a Sith altar. This thing's been here since the place was built."

"We should—"

"Stop the ritual, yeah."

The light shifts as Mace turns an unimpressed gaze back to him directly. "That is _not_ what I was going to say."

"Yeah, but it _should_ be," Anakin chirps, covering a nervous flutter of tension with a confident smirk. "Look, at least we know no one is here _now_ , but I was also the first person the guards have reported to you, right?"

"Obviously."

"Right, so _obviously_ there's another entrance around here somewhere," Anakin announces with a cross of his arms. "So, we need to _find it_ before whoever or whatever started this ritual gets back here, and I'm not about to go looking while this thing's still running," he explains with a brief gesture for the rune-scarred altar and the hint of a small object resting in the middle of sluggishly pooling blood at its center.

"… Does it occur to you that whomever is capable of circumventing _Temple Security_ may well be _expecting_ you to mess with the ritual?" Mace's words are delivered with flat necessity, but Anakin can't help noticing a hint of concern at their edges.

"Does it occur to you that maybe _I can handle that?_ " Anakin nevertheless answers, with perhaps less of the angry defensiveness that would have colored his words not that long ago. He exhales roughly and shoves loose strands of hair back from his face with his flesh hand, gaze flicking between his Jedi companion and the item centering the ritual, which he can't quite make out the shape of, just beyond their bubble of light. "If you want to wait for backup, you can, but honestly, I'm not sure we're getting back _in here_ without following the bait, so either leave now, or —"

"I'm not leaving you here."

The words are quelling in their own right, but the sense of finality-protection-duty that cuts like a single, twinkling light in the Force through the miasma surrounding them snaps Anakin's mouth shut. He swallows back lingering recriminations from long-forgotten grudges and nods instead. Obi-Wan's words the last time they lingered at the entrance to this place, when terror poured out and the Council stood firm behind them, ring in his ears — but it's the memory of quiet determination beat into every line of his master's expression five years ago when they crept out of the Temple, the Order, and the Republic that makes him move away from the puddle of violet light.

"Then watch my back," he says with all the confidence he can muster. "There's no telling what might lash out when I try to stop it." 

Opening himself to the Force exposes him to the oily pressure beating down and drawing in towards the bloody altar, but, that deep in the flow, he doesn't need the fading light that shifts warily behind him. In the Force, the blood shimmers, and it's only experience that lets him swallow back the urge to gag from the sickly sweet, tangy smell of it as he steps even with the stone. Now, no longer reliant on the light to see, he can just make out the slim, jagged shape of a wicked dagger embedded in the center of the altar. 

An ancient Sith blade in a pool of blood atop a rune-covered Shrine at the center of a vergence?

< _Obi-Wan's expression turns wry, but he says only, "Stay safe."_ >

Anakin chuckles under his breath, and reaches out with his mechano-hand. "Don't I always?"

Vaguely, he _also_ remembers Obi-Wan's voice telling him not to touch strange Sith artifacts, but it's too late. The moment his hand meets the hilt, the world shifts, and suddenly it's like being on Mortis, like the Tusken Raider camp; endlessly dark, Master isn't with him, and he's alone.  


It occurs to him that it's been a very long time since he's done this on his own. He tries to look back for Mace, but the Jedi Master is blurry in his vision now. Anakin's breath comes faster, like he can't quite breathe normally, and he's losing feeling in his arms. Desperately, instinctively, he reaches out for the bond, reaches out for Obi-Wan — but they're too far apart now. The faintest echo of light reverberates back, and Anakin holds on to the lifeline, trying to flail through the murky depths to find the surface again. He can't breathe. He can't breathe.  


He can't feel his limbs.

The Dark whispers of power, telling him he only needs to reach out, and once he has that power he can fix _everything_. If he doesn't open himself to it, he'll forever remain caught in this limbo, drowning slowly.

There’s a cloying, curdled presence keeping him trapped, reminding him that nothing is under his control and there's nothing he can do, because he's destined for this, for the Dark. Giving in to it would be easier, wouldn't it? Sweeter, not to fight. He has no real choices, anyway. 

He's never had any choices.  


No, thinks Anakin. No, that's not right.  


_You will come to me sooner or later, Chosen One._  


No, Anakin tells the Dark, louder this time as he tugs again at the thin string of light that stretches far across the galaxy.  


Maybe once, when he was in the middle of a war that seemed like it would never end, a secret relationship dividing him between two of the people he loved most, juggling the guilt of failing his padawan. Maybe the Anakin back then had felt beholden to destiny, had had no choices, had felt like he would never have any choices.

But the Anakin of now is a different person, _because_ of his choices.

He _chose_ to leave the Order with Obi-Wan. He chose Yavin. He chose a new start.

He chose to stay here alone to help the Jedi Order, even with all that's happened between them, instead of going home. He chose to see the good in them with the faith that they would see the good in him, regardless of their separate paths. And despite all their previous disagreements, Mace is still standing behind him as proof that Anakin's faith _wasn't_ in vain.  


He chose their students, and Snips, and the Vod. He chose co-teaching morning classes with Krayt, field trips into Sith ruins, white saber crystals, and experimental wormmeal cakes and jungle fruit moonshine with Lieutenant Hops.  


He chose acceptance, and understanding, and sometimes even forgiveness. 

He chose Obi-Wan. Always Obi-Wan.

Suddenly, he realizes the thread of light in his hands has grown stronger and brighter, and it's his side of the bond that's fueling it. Master would be proud, Anakin thinks, and he smiles.  


It's not so hard to breathe after all.  


The warmth from his own light thaws his arms and legs out. He can move again. Anakin pushes upward, toward the light, and his head breaks the surface.  


* * *

It’s not conventional, it lasts a bit longer than Mace is entirely comfortable with, and it involves far too much suffocating darkness, but then when has anything Anakin ever done been an exception to that list? 

So when Anakin’s touch spawns a dark wind, Mace turns into the snarling torrent whipping out from the deep shadows of the cavern, blade held before him to center him against the onslaught. It’s a single light in the darkness that’s fighting to swallow them whole. He can _feel_ the heat-light- _strength_ radiating from the man behind him, and tries not to let it distract him, but Skywalker has _always_ been frustratingly impossible to ignore. Within the Force and without.

Now, when slithering darkness gushes through stale air, whipping, tearing, and racing through his skin-signature-self, it becomes a welcome distraction. He doesn’t have to look because he can feel that same corona of power beating like a sun against his back. Doesn’t turn to see the brilliant glow leaking through the Chosen One until it pours out of him like an over-full vessel barely resembling a human. Doesn’t lower his guard when the heat and power wanes and sputters. Doesn’t try to ease the passing of the Force as it crashes from the font of the Spire through the font of Skywalker like he might an ill-prepared padawan reaching for too much too quickly.

Instead, Mace sinks into his stance, focuses on the steady hum of his lightsaber, and _breathes_. 

It’s not an opponent, so he cannot beat it. It’s not the Light so he cannot welcome it.

It _is_ the Force, so he can follow it.

And the Force follows _him_. 

It’s not a battle — not one that can be won swinging a lightsaber and outsmarting an enemy — but it’s just as _exhausting_. Even if he’s just holding the line. Even if it feels like the Force itself coalesces behind him: a microcosm of intensity at once boiling and still. The pressure-pain-fear batters his shields more aggressively than any blaster, and the more deeply he sinks into the Light to shim and spread his defense, the more intently the shadows wind around-through-atop him.

So he stops. 

Anakin turns around several minutes after that, still radiating too brightly from within and smothered in darkness without. It’s the first time in his life Mace can remember ever _watching_ a shatterpoint resolve itself before him. Of course it’s Skywalker that manages it. 

The fracture splits beautifully the moment the Chosen One steps back from the altar and flicks some kind of dagger in his hand. It makes perfect sense the moment he sees it, and the overwhelming pressure-light-pull of the Force bleeds out from a form magnitudes too small to contain it. 

“… Skywalker.”

“Guess this is yours, then,” Anakin announces, his voice just a shade breathless as he brushes past, pressing the dagger into an only recently freed hand.

A strange stillness stings his nerves as Mace glances down at the Sith relic and instinctively searches for its weak points. It’s a strange pattern. Breakable, of course — all things are — but he’s not sure either of them will enjoy dealing with the aftereffects should he try. “… That’s the entire ritual?”

Anakin is already striding beyond the light of his blade, seemingly uncaringly of any lingering malicious intent in the shadowy cavern beyond. “For now. I don’t think it actually finished.”

Mace exhales tightly and tries not to ask questions he doesn’t actually want to know the answer to. 

Sith Shrines, it turns out, are not entirely impervious to more… traditional break-ins. 

Once the wrath of the dagger and its victim are overcome, the vergence itself stops lashing out, and finding the small opening in the far side of the cavern is child’s play. So they follow it, because _of course they do._ That’s also, apparently, part of the plan, and there’s no amount of entirely logical debate that will drag Anakin away from his chosen course of action. 

It’s a little terrifying to think they ever thought they had a semblance of control over the walking vergence before him.

So Anakin barrels on through a rough-hewn tunnel barely large enough for the two of them to pass through unhindered, and Mace follows. Mace follows because he knows _not following_ means leaving Anakin alone to do Force knows _what_ and he’s not sure what _else_ can happen when one vergence manipulates another, but he _is_ sure he doesn’t want to find out. Which means a brisk walk through unbroken darkness until Anakin finally stops and it’s a damn good thing Mace, at least, is paying such close attention because otherwise Skywalker would have had one less arm — Chosen One or not. 

“What is it?”

Anakin glances over his shoulder, squinting against the light and leans back against the wall with a gesture inviting him to pass. “Our exit, I think.”

The durasteel covering he wouldn’t exactly call a door melts swiftly under his blade and leads them out into — Mace doubles back and drags his shirt up over his nose and mouth. “Not for a ways, at least,” he says, gesturing into the new, far wider tunnel — and the sewage flowing slowly through it.

* * *

“Well, that makes things easier,” Anakin brightly concludes, stepping back from Windu’s perpetual scowl and summoning the cut-out doorway back into place with an absent shove of the Force. 

“… Easier?” Mace echoes, looking suspiciously back in his direction, but lowering the cloth from his face again now that the stench has been mitigated.

“Mmhm,” says Anakin with an absent gesture for Mace to take the lead heading back as he double checks his evaluation of the ceiling and walls surrounding them. “It should be pretty easy to seal up on the way out.”

Mace stops dead and turns to face him, expression grave. “Tell me that was a joke.”

Anakin blinks and drops his attention back down to the Grand Master in front of him. “Um… no?”

“You can’t seriously believe — we aren’t doing that,” Mace’s frown returns full force. Anakin _almost_ manages to get a word in before he cuts in again. “We do _not_ know what that could potentially do to the Temple, for one thing, let alone anything else above us. We don’t even now know what _else_ is directly overhead — no, what we _should_ be doing is stepping out, contacting the Council, and waiting for help.

“Okay…” Anakin thinks of the small group of padawans back home — particularly the older ones that think they already know the best ways of handling crumbling architecture _without_ the benefit of the Force — and passes irritation-frustration-anxiety into the Force. “I guess those _are_ points,” he concedes, “but ultimately the solution is going to be caving in the tunnel — the sooner the better.”

Mace stares, uttering, “What?” with such flat disbelief that Anakin almost doubts his own experience. 

Almost. 

“Just… hear me out, okay?” He tugs on the bond, trying his best to channel Obi-Wan’s seemingly endless patience, and reminds himself to _explain_. Master isn’t here. Master doesn’t _need_ to be here, because he’s got this. He handled some crazy Sith ritual to manipulate a vergence, he can handle a malcontent Mace Windu. 

Mace’s eyes narrow, but he settles back on his heels with a curt, “All right.”

Anakin clears his throat and gestures above them. “It’s a pretty narrow tunnel and, judging by the hew of the rock and the lack of bends, formed by someone, probably alone, who knew exactly where they were headed. At the same time, the flow of the Force from the Shrine hasn’t adjusted to this pathway and it doesn’t feel used to there being people in this location, so it’s most likely pretty new as well — _which means_ any of the stuff that _might_ be built over it is expecting this to be a solid foundation anyway. 

“So if we collapse the tunnel using the sides and roof as we go, we can properly seal the exit on our way out. _Then_ you can send a vode or someone around from the other end to fill in any holes if you’re really worried about it. The important part is _removing access_ before this becomes a bigger problem.”

For a long moment only the violet light of Mace’s saber breaks the silence between them. Then, he glances towards the newly mutilated door and says, “It’s still a Sith Shrine. There’s no telling what sort of defenses that kind of demolition will trigger.”

“Yeah, but we neutralized most of those back in the Temple by adjusting the obelisks and redirecting the flow,” Anakin — okay, a _little_ impatiently — attempts to explain. “Anything else that might trigger, we can probably handle between the two of us.”

“… I’m calling the Council.”

Anakin smirks, steps closer to the exit, and raises his hand. “Good idea. Give them a heads up so they don’t get worried.”

Mace has just long enough to pull his comm out before the walls shake and his words are lost in an undignified scramble for cover.

* * *

The dust, dirt, debris and foul air follows them out of the shrine doors twenty minutes and a dead run later. Mace is an irritable tangle of desperation-success-determination in the Force, and it’s all Anakin can do not to laugh between each hacking cough. They’re covered, the two of them, in at least half the tunnel, he’s sure, with little cuts and bruises that are going to sting for the next several days.

Several days they’ll both spend largely incapacitated if the Force exhaustion dragging his limbs to the earth with each wavering step is any indication.

“I am beginning to regret this assignment and we have not even _left_.”

Anakin looks up from his attempt to shake the dirt from his hair, only to jerk back with a surprised yelp when a very disapproving Pantoran woman shoves a yellow crystal in his face. “Whoa— hey!”

“Kyora,” Mace croaks out, and it takes Anakin a minute to realize it’s a name.

“Master Windu,” she greets, though it’s not far off from the skeptical glance she passes over Anakin — along with the healing crystal. 

Mace makes a gesture with the hilt of his saber from Anakin to the Pantoran woman prodding him through the Force. “Skywalker—” He’s cut off by a sudden cough and a vague sense of disgruntlement fades into the Force. “Your requested Observer, Knight Kyora.”

Anakin raises a tired hand in greeting as his other smothers a cough.

Kyora presses deep blue lips into a line of disapproval and turns to back to the small team of guards apparently just behind. “Get them to the Halls of Healing. We’ll see to the details later.”

#### Footnotes:

  1. A quick-moving, burrowing creature native to Mandalore. ↩︎



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### From The Author:
> 
> So I’ve decided to go all in on the Blue Folk of GFFA, because a) why not? And b) apparently Dooku is just surrounded by them so kark it? ¯_(ツ) _/¯  
> _
> 
>  **Helpful notes:**
> 
> Iridonian = Zabrak. Specifically those from the planet Iridonia (so like Master Koth). It just seems likely to have more folks from here.
> 
> Vhe'viin … aren’t something Anakin has actually dealt with himself: this is more of an influence of the vod in his life. It’s been fun kind of weaving all of that in as we go.
> 
> **The Fun Stuff:**
> 
> So I thew in more than a few references in this chapter — some to canon, some to fun tidbits that happened in the past five years: did you catch them all?? XD
> 
> Cookies for:
> 
>   * The Tragedy of Darth Plagueis The Wise
>   * Anakin’s favorite meal
>   * Bleeding lightsaber crystals
>   * That alcohol Anakin referenced a couple of chapters back
>   * The Rule of One
>   * The Most Common Story That Gets Told About Anakin Skywalker: Chosen Disaster
> 

> 
>   
> 
> 
> ### TIMELINE SO FAR:
> 
> ( _New Information_ )
> 
> **See Previous Timelines**
> 
> **18 BBY**
> 
>   * Treaty Negotiations between the Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems
>   * Official End of The Clone Wars
>   * The 501st and 212th Battalions Are Officially Released to Yavin IV  
>  Anakin plays space taxi to pick them all up
>   * Discovery of Lost Jedi City in Yavin underground
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin adopt a family from Kijimi  
>  Gain First Post-Order Padawan
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin rescue some slaves from Hutt space
>   * Jedi Adopt As Many Clones As Possible
> 

> 
> **17 BBY**
> 
>   * Grand Army of the Republic Disbanded
>   * Republic Navy Re-Established
> 

> 
> **14 BBY** (Current Year)
> 
>   * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, Meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
>   * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep until the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
>   * Outer Rim Development and Economic Outreach Conference, hosted on Coruscant
>   * Obi-Wan Goes Home
> 



	20. In Which The Author Realizes She's Writing An Entire Celine Dion Album

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dooku is a dramatic fucker, Jedi relationships are baffling, and the galaxy stumbles on, largely held together by desperation and creative accounting. 
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” by Celine Dion  
> (Or you can just play the out of key recorder version of “My Heart Will Go On”)

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Castle Serenno, Count's Private Chambers

Dooku rises as he wakes. More than ten years gone and there’s still no excising a lifetime of rising an hour before the sun from his bones. Perhaps the only real change is waking beside someone, but even still, Sifo-Dyas is yet another lingering constant and it will be another half hour before he rises. Dooku glances over as he slips from the bed — the only newly-acquired habit in his entire morning routine — to watch the steady rise and fall of each breath before he’s quite prepared to leave. 

There won’t be a morning walk, he decides as he drifts past the balcony doors. The rhythm of rain against panes that haven’t been glass in centuries suggests the tail end of a storm too deep in the night for either of them to have noticed. Storms here are wicked, howling affairs that beat against ancient stone, whipping water up from the sea just as much as it pours more down into it. Nothing like the even, controlled downpours of his youth. Perhaps it will even be enough to secure Sifo-Dyas an extra few minutes’ reprieve from his own internal clock. 

At the very least, the weather’s violent turn seems to have lent itself to Sifo-Dyas’s improved slumber, as neither of them were roused during the night. 

_Nwûl tash._

Dooku turns from the contemplative wanderings of an early morning mind to slip through an ornate door with a whisper of Force. It won’t do to delay his own routine. Too long spent idle and the body suffers, and he’s never been one to neglect his own care. How can he with so much depending on him?

_Dzwol shâsotkun._

Small pockets of diffuse, green light illuminate the sparse chamber as he walks through the same opening form with which he’s greeted every morning since the first time he held a hilt in his hand. There’s no saber yet, of course, only simple, easy repetition. The first form is merely muscle memory and careful stretches—something to get the blood flowing and settle the mind from the mysteries of the night. It’s not until the third set of movements that his muscles truly engage and the Force opens around him. 

Just as it always did lightyears and a lifetime ago in a Temple of twinkling Light.

Just as it always has now, in a castle of creeping Dark.

Jedi or Sith. Passion or Serenity. The Force is the Force and it calls him home.

_Shâsotjontû châtsatul nu tyûk._

And in the Force, the rain beats down. Serenno churns beneath his feet, a wild, primal darkness welling up from within until it flows like a dark river through the heart of the planet itself. Where Coruscant was light and bustling, brilliant civilization, Serenno tumbles through the untamed chaos of destruction, death and rampant renewal. 

Plagueis always overlooked the renewal. 

_Tyûkjontû châtsatul nu midwan._

If not for Sifo-Dyas, he may well have too.

The Dark slithers around him, whispering, clawing, tugging, promising — he exhales with a sharp, twisting movement and switches to a more advanced form. The Force follows, eagerly sinking into his veins as it always has, tangling now in a dark knot around the spark that refuses to let him sink back into the depths. 

_Midwanjontû châtsatul nu asha._

Sith are creatures of emotion and he is no exception. The stronger the obsession, the deeper the fall, and the Dark welcomes one in a rush of chaotic, terrifying power. Incredible, destructive, addictive power. Power to overcome anything. Power to change _everything_.

_Ashajontû —_

“Breakfast is ready.”

Dooku breaks the flow of the form with the curve of another, drawing back to the center and slipping out of the Force as if setting foot on a beach. His breath is heavier than he expected, a trickle of sweat betraying the free-flowing feel of the exercise as something more intense than intended. No matter. He turns for the door and the man standing just inside it.

“Did they wake you?”

Sifo-Dyas watches him as he closes the distance, extending a small towel when he’s close enough. “You know they didn’t,” he finally answers, tired lips twisting faintly amused. Standing there, barefoot on cold stone floors in loose linens, long hair free and fuzzed from sleep, Sifo-Dyas somehow exudes both the gentle serenity of the Order Dooku has long since forsaken, and an unassuming, all-encompassing familiarity he covets. 

“You could have ignored them.”

“And leave you to your own devices?” Sifo-Dyas turns back for the bedroom with a decisive snort. “I think not.” 

“As you wish.” Dooku presses forward in the Force, gently twining his signature with the bright one before him, and follows after. 

Sith run on feelings. 

Somewhere along the way, betrayal, frustration and anger became something softer, lighter, and infinitely more addictive. A gentle, persistent spark that dragged him from the depths of _power_ and delivered _purpose_ instead. One that does not flinch when tangled in the dark knot of possessive desire and all-consuming affection. Something _good_ , and bright, and warm. 

_… kotswinot itsu nuyak._

Something that could save him, if he let it.

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Castle Serenno, Formal Landing Pad

Silence falls over the landing bay as a pair of Jedi Masters exit the gleaming ostentation of the Banking Clan cruiser.

There is no one between Dooku and the pair descending the ship's exit ramp — neither his own security detail nor his visitors’. Beyond the Jedi, of course, but he suspects that is the primary reason the Order placed a request for clearance alongside the Republican one. 

Dooku hadn't really thought anything of it several days prior when the details passed his desk. It had been a while since his last direct interactions with representatives of the Republic, and Obi-Wan's tale _had_ included a suitably vague mention of some outreach conference designed to entice Outer Rim planets back into the Republic's grasp. It hadn't bothered him. The closer they draw to the end of the five year grace period codified by the Treaty, the more desperately the Republic chases after resources lost to Confederate Systems. 

Thus, seeing a request from the Republican Senate for a member of the Banking Clan to visit Serenno had not been particularly surprising. 

No doubt, they intended it to serve some show of neutrality. No doubt, they anticipated using such cover to ply concessions directly from him rather than bothering with Parliament. They will be mistaken, of course, but he has never particularly minded proving wrong the people who think they own the galaxy. 

"Count." 

"Master Fisto," he mildly returns, turning the whole of his attention with a polite tilt of his head that has somehow wormed its way back into his mannerisms after so long. If the show of courtesy surprises the Nautolan master, it's not by enough for him to show it. "I'm afraid no one saw fit to inform me a member of the High Council would be in attendance," he murmurs, with a gesture to the closest sentient available — a member of staff lingering hesitantly by the door — and adds, "I'm afraid the additional rooms will require a moment to arrange."

Jedi never truly change, even after a galaxy-spanning conflict wherein he rent so many from their numbers. As such, Kit settles back on his heels with a calm smile, unbothered and at ease from his one simple concession. "There is no need for such excess."

"I insist." 

His last member of staff vanishes into the castle proper, and Dooku turns his attention past the coil of tension proceeding down the ramp behind his security detail to assess, instead, the purple-hued Altiri master making no attempts to hide herself within the folds of voluminous Jedi robes. It's been decades, but true to the longevity of her people — and the well of her strength in the Force, he's certain — she barely seems to have aged in the interim. 

"… Master Kostana." 

It seems hardly adequate.

"Dooku."

The interim head of the Banking Clan pauses behind her, a thin veneer of respectability hardly enough to keep his confusion, tension, and lingering anxieties from drifting between the three Force sensitives poised in obvious standoff before him. He is, at least, smart enough not to say a word to interrupt them. Fisto is the only one to even bother acknowledging the man's presence with little more than a slight turn in his direction.

Another moment passes in what is doubtlessly a disquieting assessment for their oblivious audience.

Of all things Dooku expected to follow Kenobi's off handed commentary, somehow, _this_ had never once factored in. It's been too long, he thinks, since Sifo-Dyas has even _mentioned_ his old master. Too long since they shared those memories. Decades, at least, since either had even heard tell of the woman.

Then Kostana's lips, pressed tightly together since her curt greeting, quirk slightly at the corner. "If you would direct me to the purpose of my visit, Count, I will leave the… politics to those more inclined."

Dooku's lips curl into a smirk before he can even think to withhold it. "You are, of course, my welcome guest, Lene." He turns as he speaks, extending a hand back towards the castle and the wide, arched doorway leading further into it with a far more gracious greeting than previously offered. "My home and all within it is open to you." 

His _actual_ guest has grace enough, at least, to direct his confused demand for clarification to Kit alone when he thinks himself out of earshot, no doubt. Unfortunately for him, Master Fisto seems largely content to watch rather than supply any manner of explanation to the perplexed human understanding approximately nothing of the dynamic before him.

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Central Carannia, Open Air Markets

“The markets are just as lively as I remember.” Lene says with a tug of her hood, drawing it down to enjoy the pleasant breeze.

“They never really stopped,” Sifo-Dyas answers with a nod for the proprietor of a nearby stall. “Serennians pride themselves on autonomy—”

“Don’t we know it.”

Sifo-Dyas inclines his head with a wry twist of his lips. “— and Carannians, I think you’ll find, are _particularly_ stubborn.” Just as Lene’s expression slants just as wry, however, he quickly adds, “A trait they share with many Jedi.”

Lene arches an eyebrow, but her expression is too amused to really offer refutation. She turns instead to observing the bustling markets and the eclectic mix of sentients chattering in various languages over everything from imported droid parts to what she can only assume are some form of local fish, gutted and hung up to dry. Her memory of these streets is far older than the few decades since her last visit to Serenno, but, then again, that had been a rescue mission. 

She’s becoming less certain that her current mission is as well. 

“Where did you find that piece?”

Sifo-Dyas’s words return her quickly to the present and the small object she’s not entirely sure isn’t a holocron laid out amongst a table of baubles and jewelry. 

“Ah, just in from the Northern Caves, that one,” the older twi’lek proprietor announces with a bright smile for her potential customer.

Lene glances askance, lingering on the small curl of pride that rises within from the sight of the Jedi Master that stands where her once-padawan always did. It’s just a moment of warmth long since forgotten in the years she thought him dead. Just a moment passed gently into the Force, but Sifo-Dyas gives her that same, closed-lipped smile that speaks of easy, immediate understanding and turns back to the proprietor. 

A few minutes later, he sets a small bag of mysterious baubles into her hands. 

“You should have let me pay,” she says, tucking it into her robes as they leave. In her mind’s eye she can still see a human just on the cusp of his majority grinning in hastily-repressed pride as he presents his master with the fruits of many hours' negotiations. 

In the present, Sifo-Dyas chuckles and turns them towards a side street. “With what money?”

“Surely you remember—”

“You don’t carry enough, Master Kostana,” he interrupts with a spark of mirth in his expression.

It earns him a very dry look. “As no prices were _given_ , I feel I should be asking if _the Count_ is aware he’s funding Jedi research — or if he makes a habit of simply taking what he wants.”

Sifo-Dyas raises a hand in silent request for reprieve, but doesn’t appear particularly taken aback. “Peace, Master,” he says quietly, but his gentle smile still hasn’t left. “You know he wouldn’t deny you anything — and I should hope you know _I_ wouldn’t take anything uncompensated.”

Her exhale becomes more of a sigh, and she inclines her head in agreement.

“They’ll submit a request for payment by the end of the day, more than likely,” he more amiably continues as they step from the side street into the light of an open harbor that extends out from the cliffside below them. 

“To think all this time I assumed you dead, my padawan,” she muses, shading her eyes from the sun, “and instead you’ve become a kept man.”

His utterly nonplussed expression is everything she’d hoped for. 

They continue on for some time, Sifo-Dyas quietly relating some detail of the nearby architecture, or an anecdote about a passerby whose gaze lingers on the strange woman accompanying him. It’s evident, at least, that these people are familiar with him — or at least his position among them — but there’s something inescapable in their easy greetings and well-wishes. Something familiar. A sort of warm curiosity she hasn’t seen Sifo-Dyas indulge since — well, for quite some time at least. 

When the High Council approached her for this mission, she wasn’t sure what she’d find here, but she’s fairly certain this wasn’t it. It had taken some time to settle her trepidation, let alone the small spark of hope that there may yet be something here to salvage. The last she’d heard of _Dooku_ was not exactly pleasant, and having encountered none of his line since Qui-Gon was named Master, found herself skeptical of information gleaned from former Jedi who went from well-respected generals to eloping and starting some sort of commune. 

The fact that Sifo-Dyas had somehow survived that mess on Oba Diah —

“Here we are.”

Lene draws a contemplative gaze from the far off horizon and turns it back to the storefront Sifo-Dyas has stopped before. “A teahouse?”

He smiles, then, warmly and openly and for a moment the knot of concern unravels from somewhere in her chest. “They serve Cassius Tea,” he explains, opening the door to gesture her inside, “I thought—”

“Of me?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Of your predilection to acquire it.”

It doesn’t take long for a member of staff to settle them into a quiet corner, beside a window left open to the sea far below. Sifo-Dyas gestures for her to take a seat while he exchanges pleasantries with the older man who saw them to what is, apparently, his usual table. She listens with only half an ear to the small talk, more intent on the calm currents of the Force surrounding them and the open body language of two humans who clearly feel at ease with one another. 

Once he joins her at the table, she asks, "A typical haunt?" 

"A little peace outside the castle," Sifo-Dyas agrees with a dip of his head. 

"He seems surprised by your company." There's a time to be subtle — a time long since past, she thinks. "As have many others."

Her chosen topic startles a bit of a laugh from him, at least. "I suppose they would be." His presence in the Force eases just enough to remind her of how carefully restrained he remains. It's not… anxious, precisely, but that cool placidity of a Jedi Master she knows now surrounds a firm core of shielding she finds herself surprisingly unfamiliar with. "Although, they seem mostly confused by your… origins, as it were."

"My origins?"

He shakes his head, waving away the potential indictment lingering in her tone. "You must understand, I do not _typically_ have company on these trips. When I do, it's usually… well, high-ranking members of house Serenno."

Lene's eyebrows raise in open amusement. "They've all been thinking I'm part of _Dooku's_ house?"

Sifo-Dyas, of course, seems just as humored. "Indeed."

"Oh, I'm sure he's been enjoying that," she huffs on a laugh and settles back into her seat. 

"Not as much as he did when it happened to Skywalker, I can assure you," Sifo-Dyas says in tones so dry she can't help but immediately tilt her head in open curiosity. "I take it you haven't met him?"

"An apparently egregious oversight on my part, I have been learning," she thoughtlessly quips. The stiffness in his shields eases, along with the creases at the edges of his eyes. Humans, she’s found — those who grew up in a family instead of a crèche — call them 'laugh lines’, a sign of a long life well lived. In that moment, she wants nothing more than to believe the idiom. 

"Oh, a terrible one," he agrees with another warm smile. "You always did get along with the rest of his Lineage."

Lene levels a pointed, exasperated expression on her former apprentice. "Aveross — even Jinn — are hardly comparable to someone who single-handedly changed the flow of the Force through the Jedi Temple." Movement in her periphery pauses her words as the old man from before returns with a tray of tea. She leans back to allow him easy access to the table. "Or so I've heard."

Sifo-Dyas raises his eyebrows in faint surprise, although the mirth lingers still. 

" _You_ did not hear of it?" Lene surmises, maintaining a neutral tone at least so long as the server remains, carefully preparing the first pot. 

"I would be… unsurprised were that the case," he answers with a nod and genial smile for their host, who departs with an answering smile and a broad sweep of his arm towards the table. Sifo-Dyas tucks a sleeve with one hand, reaching over to pour her a cup before she can even attempt the action herself. "What I have heard of their trip is — rather unfortunately, it seems — limited by Kenobi's penchant for immense understatement and Dooku's… dislike for being reminded of exactly how many traits he shares with Anakin."

Well if _that_ isn't a loaded statement. Still, Lene finds herself openly sharing the humor of his words with a quirk of her lips and a fond shake of her head. "Admittedly, you have me intrigued, Sifo-Dyas," she relents to the obvious curiosity swirling within her. 

"I don't think I should need to be a Master to sense it within you," he returns with an easy smile while settling back to pour his own cup as well. "Likewise, I should think my own intentions here obvious."

Lene doesn't answer immediately, choosing instead to carefully pluck her small cup from the table, curling one hand around to cover both the cup and her fingers as she blows gently over the rim. Across the table, Sifo-Dyas moves in kind, raising his drink to her before taking a slow sip. Against better wisdom, she's sure, Lene joins him. This time, however, there is no easing of shields along with his show of openness, and the familial ritual of tea between them. 

So that's the limit, is it?

"Dooku did not expect me," she announces, returning a now empty cup to the table. Sifo-Dyas finishes his own before moving to refill hers. It's a careful pause she wishes she didn't read so much of the Count in, but knows better than to linger on, given all she knows to have always been between them. "You can rest assured; I do not think this… day trip… constructed." She lapses into silence once more, as she gathers the rest of her thoughts, fingers drifting around the warm rim of the cup and the steam drifting up from it. "It would mean more, of course, were you _actually_ left alone."

Sifo-Dyas's lips twist with amusement, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening with fondness as he continues preparing his second cup of tea without a hint of surprise from her words. "Did I ever truly leave your side when concerned for your welfare, Master?"

Unable to deny the shock from his words, Lene casts her gaze immediately to the doorway and the presence she can barely sense in the Force lingering outside it. He _could_ have simply told her the woman following them since the castle was a precaution. Could have feigned surprise, at least, if he was actually so deeply entwined with the fallen Jedi she once called friend and trying to shake her concerns over his own involvement. After a moment, she moves her gaze from the entrance to her former padawan once more, watching him and his presence in the Force with a scrutiny forgone in the decades since his promotion to the High Council. 

He smiles gently and the shields remain. "Would you like to meet her?"

"Dooku's Lineage, it seems, _has_ increased just as much as rumored," she murmurs over the rim of her cup. 

"You can't honestly be surprised."

Lene raises her eyebrows. "Of him, perhaps not, but _you_ , my padawan?" She sighs, but even that action has a curl of affection in it, despite all reasons for the contrary. "You _have_ surprised me, I must admit."

"Have I?"

She takes a contemplative sip and continues watching him. "You know the Council would not look fondly on an unapproved apprenticeship — especially one given to an acolyte of the Sith."

"Even if as a means to keep them from the depths of the Dark Side?" he says, knowing perfectly well the answer, but holding her to the words all the same.

"For a man who claims to remain _Jedi_ you have done much without the guidance of the Order," she notes, however cautiously.

"Is that not the purpose of your visit?" 

"If it were, how can you expect me to derive any suitable report when you offer no real information?" Lene sets her cup down with a quiet exhale, gaze lingering upon the tea and its soft reflections of the sunlight drifting in through the window beside them. "I do not sense any malice from you, Sifo-Dyas. I do not believe you lost to the Dark." She presses her lips together, digging for the right words to continue. 

"You cannot say the same of Dooku," Sifo-Dyas mildly summarizes in the midst of her pause. 

Her gaze flicks immediately up to his own, finding only the quiet calm of a Jedi Master she thought long since lost. Well, no use mincing words, it seems. "I cannot."

He shrugs lightly. "You should not."

The vague knot of concern tightens slowly within and her brow furrows. "… I cannot help, if you —"

"I do not need help." His words are firm but quiet, and as unyielding as the shields before her. His expression remains somewhat bafflingly fond regardless. "Though you would not be the first to offer it."

She blinks. "… Master Kenobi?"

"Ventress, actually."

The implications wash over her with the cold certainty of every terrible moment spent cradling a tormented padawan in her arms as he gasped for breath, barely aware, fingers tight in her robes and the name of his friend spilling from his lips in terror. It had been _her_ nudge, back then, for him to look into the fabric of the Force spread out beyond time as they experienced it. _Her_ nudge that led to endless nights and trembling terrors in the dark. Sometimes eased by her, sometimes a ritual, and sometimes… the crèchemate she'd long since taken under her wing. 

She'd tried to convince herself, then, that it was _merely_ childhood attachment. Later, even Dooku had agreed to step back, to leave Sifo-Dyas to her care, for the sake of his friend. They were all Masters, after all. They understood the damage that could be caused. Then, finally, when Dooku stepped away from the Order, she'd thought… that was it. Those whispers in the dark were nothing more than a desperate search for reassurance. An instinctive lurch for the familiar and the safe and the one who always came for him.

She should have known better. 

Sifo-Dyas's visions _always_ came true.

"What did he do?" The words are colder than she anticipates, but she does not let them linger, pressing the mess of it quickly into the Force.

The gentle smile tightens at the edges, but Sifo-Dyas says only, "That is between us, Master Kostana."

Her eyes lid, a grief long since processed rising again from somewhere within. "Then I truly have lost you."

She does not expect the sheer exasperation in his sigh. "I had thought you more reasonable than that, Master."

"I had thought the same of Dooku, once," she fires back, defensive and protective in ways she hasn't felt in decades and inexperienced in the processing of it.

"You have not _lost_ me." He straightens as he speaks, vying for her direct attention and catching it without much effort. "Nor have you _him_. If anything, you have _gained_ —"

"I dedicated my life to unraveling the secrets of the Sith, _not_ attempting to _become one_."

"And because of that — because of _you_ ," he patiently continues, as if her interruption was part of his original statement, "I survived." 

Silence passes between them, but he holds her gaze through it.

Then, quietly, he adds, "For that, Master Kostana, you have our deepest gratitude."

She breaks away, falling back into her chair with a tired sigh. " _You_ I'll believe. _Dooku_ has an interesting way of showing it."

"As I said: he will deny you nothing."

"Even you?"

Sifo-Dyas' gaze flattens. "… You know very well I am not _his_ to withhold.”

"And yet you remain." She doesn't mean it unkindly, but raises a hand to gesture vaguely around them in an attempt to soften the accusation. "That's what you wanted to show me, isn't it? That you _decided_ to stay? To let the Order think you dead? That you are not a prisoner and this is no gilded cage?" Lene drops her hand and refocuses her attention on the man across from her. "I am relieved, of course, to find you alive, in the Light and in good health, but after all these years… can you honestly tell me you remain with the Order? That you are not _his_ alone?"

Across the table, Sifo-Dyas exhales quietly. In the Force, the stillness of his signature ripples out with soothing warmth, no longer the cool, radiating calm of a Jedi Master but something… different. Not… _bad_ , but certainly… new. 

"Once, a long time ago," he begins somewhere in the midst of her observations, "I chose the Order. You know that as well as I. When you last left Serenno, we _both_ made that decision. I could have _always_ stayed — _you_ could have always returned. He would have never turned _either_ of us away. In that way, we have always been too attached for our own good.

"But you and I, we chose the Order, and he chose Serenno. You helped me pull through those years; I know you remember how difficult that was, and how deeply I appreciate your care. The galaxy darkened around us all, but with your aid, I managed to keep my sanity and, as such, my freedom."

"Sifo-Dyas—"

" _Then_ ," he presses forward with the word, and she relents to his obvious push to continue. "I had another choice to make: to side with the Order against my better judgement, or take steps that could possibly save the Republic. You know, Master Kostana, the decision I made."

Her lips twist with wry acceptance. "The Grand Army."

"You disapprove?"

"You know I do not," she breathes, offering only a sardonic expression in return.

It earns her a quiet chuckle, at least. "I thought not." The tension in his shoulders eases and he leans back in his chair once more, drawing the small cup of tea back with him. "In each case, I did what I felt best for the galaxy. In each case you agree. Am I correct?"

She's fairly sure she knows where this is going, but when has that ever changed her decisions? 

"You are."

He inclines his head: polite, but clearly having anticipated her answer.

"What has changed that you would trust my judgement then, and not now?"

She inhales a steadying breath. "If it came down to it, Sifo-Dyas, between —"

"Dooku."

Lene sets her cup down and meets his gaze. "You didn't let me finish. That is why. You intend to stand with him _no matter what_." If anything, her rebuttal only seems to ease the tension between them. It wouldn't be so surprising under different circumstances, or perhaps with another Jedi, but here and now, she hadn't expected to clear the board so easily and with such success. So, she finishes her thought. "It is an absolute position. One of attachment. One which will lead to folly if not the Dark."

"An attachment that, when indulged, drew him back from the depths," Sifo-Dyas immediately answers. "One doesn't fault an anchor for its immobility."

" _You_ are far more than another's mooring, my padawan."

He lifts his cup in a brief toast to her words. "As he is more than my own. Still, I like to think—"

"In what way?"

Her words manage to catch him off guard, given how he shifts upward in his chair. "Master?"

"In what way can he possibly provide beneficial anchorage?" Lene shrewdly demands. "You walk in the Light. You draw him from the Dark. This, I can see. How does _Dooku_ benefit _you_?"

He smiles. Broad, open and with a warmth echoed boldly in his signature. "To paraphrase, Master, we walk together. The Force does not show me what it _wants_ , only what it _fears_. You know I am not always capable of separating myself from it. Surely you've noticed?"

Suddenly, it clicks. 

"Your shields."

Sifo-Dyas inclines his head briefly and takes another sip of his tea.

No wonder they felt so different. They weren't _from Sifo-Dyas_. She can't help it; she stares. Out of all the possibilities, out of everything they've so far discussed, the mere idea that Dooku would still, somehow, be willing to take such a potential risk to himself — no, at the same time she thinks it, she discards the thought. Even if she dares to believe Sifo-Dyas has dragged his old crèchemate from the Dark, even the Dooku she knew what feels like a lifetime ago wouldn't see the inherent danger to such an act _if it was for Sifo-Dyas_.

Moreover, especially _now_ , there is no universe in which he does not think himself perfectly capable of managing such a feat.

The worst part, of course, is _he was right_. The proof is sitting whole and hale across from her.

"… That arrogant _bastard_."

"As you can see, things haven't really changed all that much."

Lene exhales tersely and reaches out to refill her own cup. "I am not sure I'm prepared to deal with _the two of you_ again."

"If you'd prefer, I can have Sev'rance join us." Sifo-Dyas has already raised his hand for the proprietor's attention.

Without much of a choice, Lene just shakes her head and sets about making a fresh pot. "I am not sure meeting more of Dooku's line—"

"She may be _Dooku's_ Sith Apprentice, but she is _my_ padawan," Sifo-Dyas interrupts, already gesturing their server to the door in what Lene can only assume to be a somewhat regular request to fetch his stalker. "I am merely introducing you to _your own line_."

It's too much, really. Lene settles back as their server disappears quickly through the front door, leveling an exasperated gaze too fondly on her old padawan. "Dooku must be _thrilled_."

"Spoken as if you won't enjoy teasing him over it later."

She arches a knowing eyebrow, but merely raises her cup in lieu of a proper response.

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Castle Serenno, Diplomatic Envoy Accommodations

Padmé's face sharpens into focus above the commlink on the fourth ring and Clovis heaves a sigh of relief no matter the stern expression that greets him. Even with an expression made of little but suspicion and judgment, she's a sight for sore eyes. 

"Padmé—"

"To what do I owe this dubious honor?"

"Senator Amidala," he immediately transitions, the desperation of past years colliding with the utter confusion of his past several hours in such a way that he can't help wincing slightly when some of it leaks into his voice. He's supposed to be the best negotiator in the Banking Clan. They are counting on him, he reminds himself with a quiet clearing of his throat covered by a contrite bow of his head. "Please, you know I would not dare—"

"There are many things I thought you 'would not _dare_ ' over the years, Clovis. You have proven those assumptions wrong on too many occasions to trust them further." Her voice is curt, but the use of his name, at least, gives some hope. "Now, if this is not an official matter—"

"It is, it is!" He hastily interrupts, hands raised placatingly. "I did volunteer for the recent talks with the Confederacy – surely you remember?"

She settles back from the comm, arms crossed, but at the very least _listening_. “I can assure you it is the _only_ reason I answered.”

“As always, I am grateful for your adherence to duty,” he quickly soothes with another smooth dip of his head. 

She huffs disbelievingly, but seems somehow less inclined to cut the feed, at least. “You were sent to Serenno _against_ my advice, Clovis. Surely you know that.”

Briefly, he reconsiders this call. The sudden memory of one of his Jedi escorts leaning into the Count’s space to swat at him like a disobedient child and the terrifying man’s only response remaining limited to a clear roll of his eyes, pushes Clovis through desperation to honesty. “I know my reputation, Padmé, and I admit it’s entirely warranted. And I know most were convinced solely due to the Banking Clan’s previous neutrality providing a beneficial lever with which to ply concessions from the Confederacy. But also, I know when I _need help_.”

Padmé’s eyes narrow and she leans forward just enough that Rush experiences the very real fear she is about to end the call regardless. Instead, she says, “If you needed help with these negotiations, you never should have volunteered.”

Nervous laughter escapes before he can catch it. “If I had known _before_ I was assigned Jedi protectors— Padmé, _please_ listen; I volunteered under the assumption I would be unearthing secrets _elsewhere_ , but I don’t even know what I don’t know about this mess with the Order and Dooku! 

“I understand wanting to deal with them directly, but I didn’t — there was already another one here? And then half my security detail completely _disappeared_ with Dooku’s… _consort_? I didn’t even know he _had one_ and I’m _pretty sure_ Jedi aren’t _supposed_ to be… romantically involved? And there are _protocols_ for these things, besides, none of which could be followed because, of course, no one _informed me of any of this_ and then _dinner_ —”

“ _Clovis_.”  


His jaw snaps shut on instinct, heat spreading quickly through his cheeks when he realizes the impossible tangle of a rant his so-called ‘way with words’ has devolved into. At least she seems… vaguely amused against her better judgement, if he had to put a finger on it. That’s… good, probably. At least it’s kept her on the line.

“Apologies, Padmé, the past day has been… trying,” Rush nevertheless attempts to collect himself, exhaling roughly. “I could think of no other Senator who would even be able to explain what is going on, let alone how to keep it all from blowing up in our faces.”

For a moment surely shorter than the eternity it feels like, she watches him in silence. Then, with a shake of her head, her image seems to move, and suddenly the holocomm connection improves. “I am not sure what knowledge I could possibly have that a more senior member of the Senate would not, but for the sake of the Republic… I will listen.”

Relief, pure and simple, courses through him. “Senator Amidala, I assure you, you are my _only_ hope,” he quite seriously informs her. “If you cannot make sense of it, there is quite simply no sense to be made.”

“Still a flatterer, I see,” she dryly retorts, but simply sighs and reclines in a chair. “What makes you think any of this… so-called ‘Jedi Mess’ will even affect negotiations?”

Rush swallows to clear the lump in his throat that forms from the briefest memory of his unsettling dinner not half an hour prior. “Well, to begin with, the fact that neither of my Jedi escorts were supposed to be a _part_ of the negotiations?”

Her brow furrows slightly in a way that has always emphasized the pleasant curve of her lashes. He tries not to linger on the memory. “Who accompanied you?”

“Masters Fisto and Kostana.”

Padmé tilts her head in open thought. “I am familiar with Master Fisto. From what I know of him, he was a particularly stalwart presence on the battlefield. It makes sense for him to join you for security, even if it seems unusual for a member of the High Council to be assigned. But then, you _are_ on Serenno.”

“And Master Kostana?”

She shrugs lightly. “I do not recall a Jedi by that name, but honestly, Rush, there _are_ thousands of them.”

“Thousands with personal connections to Count Dooku, though?”

That, finally, catches her attention completely, and she straightens in her chair. “What makes you say that?”

“Dinner,” Clovis flatly answers, crossing his arms. “Dooku’s initial greeting? The fact that she _ran off with his consort_? Take your pick.” 

“I’m sorry — _what_?” 

It takes all of his many years of experience to limit his anxiety to a sweep of his hand through his his hair instead of over his face. “I _did_ mention the _other_ Jedi?”

And now he’s confused her. No surprise there. _He’s_ got no idea what’s going on either. 

“The consort,” Rush attempts to clarify, amidst his own utter lack of understanding. “Unless I am _entirely_ misreading the situation, but honestly, it is _difficult_ to misconstrue those sort of relationships when you grow up among Muun.”

It takes her a minute to sort through, but that blessedly sharp intellect pulls through not long after. “If I… If I am understanding the situation correctly,” Padmé begins again, lips twitching with what he can only assume to be repressed mirth, “Master Kostana was, in fact, largely concerned with … Master Sifo-Dyas?”

“Yes! Precisely, I—” Rush’s own wit catches up a pace behind and furrows his brow in consternation. “I read that entire briefing front to back, and reviewed every Banking Clan communiqué with the Confederacy and _not once_ was Master Sifo-Dyas _ever_ mentioned.”

She’s _definitely_ laughing at him, or rather, his pain. At least it’s mostly restrained to her eyes. Padmé takes the moment to clear her throat and says only, “I take it _he_ is the one you believe to be a… consort?”

“… When you say it like that, I really do begin to question my own eyes, Padmé.”

A short chuckle makes it through the curve of her hand before she can collect herself. “I’m sorry, it’s just… it sounds so much like Anakin’s description.”

Ah. Well, that… That answers several questions, actually. It’s difficult to hide his chagrin. “And the rest?”

“Well, I’m not sure about the sort of relationships they share that would result in the Count allowing her to be alone with Master Sifo-Dyas for any amount of time,” she continues thoughtfully. “The way Obi-Wan always told it, it was a miracle of circumstance that they even _met_ back during the Treaty negotiations. Apparently the Order thought he'd died well over a decade ago. I suppose I always assumed…” She trails off, and the thoughtfulness in her gaze tells him there’s much more than that, but all she finishes with is, “Did you try asking Master Fisto about any of it?”

Rush groans and collapses into his own chair from the memory. “Most infuriatingly unhelpful, he is. Called it a _family matter_ — I’m fairly certain they don’t even _have_ families? He spent most of the day looking like this visit was more entertaining than the Opera.”

Padmé, of course, smirks at his despair. Which, honestly? Fair enough.

“You know something.”

“I _suspect_ something,” she corrects, but the good humor never leaves her expression. 

“Well?”

“What secrets were you _expecting_ to uncover?”

He blinks, taken entirely off guard and scrambling for mental purchase. 

“Earlier you said you volunteered for this assignment because you _expected_ to uncover secrets unrelated to your current Jedi predicament,” she shrewdly explains, leaning forward with intent in her eyes. “Tell me what you were _expecting_ to find, and I’ll tell you what I _suspect_ is going on here.”

“That’s—” Everything he ever saw in her, really. “— Hardly a fair deal.”

“It is the one offered. So?”

It only takes a moment to make the decision and he concedes with open hands. “I suspect the Banking Clan broke its neutrality far before I was ever aware in ways far more egregious than mere profiteering,” he quickly summarizes, eyes lidding as he drops his gaze from hers. “As interim head, I have been granted access I only dreamed of before, but the sort of embezzlement… the sheer _level_ of corruption involved… it’s beyond anything I've seen or heard of. 

“I’ve held together _what I can_ , Padmé, but it won’t last.” Rush exhales and shakes his head lightly, gathering enough courage to raise his gaze to hers once more. “I believe in the banks. The system works. It's just … a dishonest few who are destroying everything for their own gain. Who almost destroyed _everything_.”

“A dishonest few _you helped_.”

“I did.” Despite the blunt reminder of his own failings, Clovis straightens beneath her gaze. “And now I am asking for your help to correct that mistake. I have half a picture—”

“And the rest is with the Confederacy?”

“With Serenno specifically, I believe.”

Padmé frowns openly, but falls silent. For a long moment, Rush _almost_ starts to doubt her end of the bargain. Then, she glances off screen and says, "Jedi do not have families in the same way we do, but they _do_ have Lineages. I suspect Master Fisto was merely attempting to phrase it in a way that would make sense to you."

Well that's… not particularly helpful. His frustration must show on his face, considering the downright _smug_ expression that curls Padmé's lips. Rush sighs and looks away before he can convince himself to chase something he really, _really_ shouldn't, and puts a hand to his forehead. "Well it hardly makes sense either way, and I fail to see how _either_ should lead to having half of my entire strategy jettisoned on Day One."

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "Half your strategy? Spent too many years dictating in lieu of compromise?" He tries not to wince at what is clearly meant to be a tease. "Although, I suppose I _have_ noticed a surprising lack of ruthlessness when it comes to the repayment of emergency loans from the wars. Have you really lost your edge so quickly?"

"I believe I've already said more than I should in that regard over a holocomm," he grumbles and straightens in his seat. They share a glance that he's pleasantly surprised to recognize from their freshmen days in the Senate. Well, she still hasn't ended the call at least. "Perhaps another time?"

"Oh, you really are off your game if you think I'm letting a—" she glances off screen again, "11pm call be the last time we talk about any of this."

He smirks lightly and plays up the gracious bow of his head in acquiescence. "On the matters to be discussed, however, you _know_ I prefer understanding the situation I've walked into. When it comes to the Republic and the Banking Clan, I have no questions. With the Order, however, I'm afraid I'm at a loss — and honestly could have used a debriefing, at the very least, if they intended to use this arrangement for their own purposes."

She's already shaking her head before he finishes, but all she says is, "They won't tell you what they're after, Clovis." He suspects there's more to _that_ too, but tactfully refrains from prying. "To be entirely honest, however, I am not sure it really _is_ something you need to worry over, unless half your strategy was built around the Count's perpetual level of discontent."

There's a beat of silence. 

"I _am_ replacing his previously preferred … Ambassador of sorts," Rush quite flatly reminds perhaps the last woman in the galaxy in need of it.

Padmé has the decency to smother her chuckle with a hand and shakes her head lightly until she can work it out of her system enough to answer. "Indeed you are. Ah, well, if it helps perhaps, you should know that, too, has to do with Lineage, I suspect."

Now _that_ might be helpful. Rush raises his eyebrows and leans forward. "In what way?"

"Obi-Wan is _part of_ Dooku's Lineage — well, both of them are, really, but the impression I have of the situation suggests both Anakin and Dooku would prefer not to acknowledge it."

"I'm… really not sure—"

"Ah, this is really why you called _me_ , isn't it?" Realization and amusement flicks through Padmé's expression as he gives an open sweep of his arms in answer. "It's easy to forget, sometimes, how long it took to pry any of this out of them."

"As always, your knowledge is _greatly_ appreciated."

She rolls her eyes at his admittedly overdone flattery, and continues. "Jedi Lineages aren't that different from traditional ones. They just don't follow _bloodlines_ , but _instructors_. That is why all of them share a Lineage: Dooku mentored Master Jinn, who in turn took _Obi-Wan_ as his padawan learner, who took—"

"That's it!" Clovis cuts in with a sudden rush of understanding. "That's what Master Kostana kept saying!"

Padmé blinks, processes, and echoes back a curious, "… 'Padawan'?"

"Oh, blast it, I should have caught on earlier," Rush mutters, launching himself to his feet to pace off the adrenaline that shot through him from the realization. "No wonder Master Fisto called it a 'family matter'. If I had _known_ we were basically bringing someone's _mother_ to visit—"

"I, uh, don't think it's _exactly_ like that," Padmé hastily attempts to cut in, cutting off Rush's pacing mid-step. "It's not exactly a one-to-one comparison, just… Look, I really don't understand it all that much better than anyone else, to be honest. All I can really tell you is it means a _lot_ to the Jedi."

Rush considers her words, contemplates the ceiling above and the veritable sea of plans he'd had before a bizarre family reunion had somehow upended all of his carefully constructed strategy – and drops his face into his hands in defeat. 

"… Clovis." Padmé sighs and there's a brief rustle of cloth as she shifts closer to the comm device. "It doesn't look like either of us will be getting much sleep at this point, so let's just… go over this again. Preferably with less panic and some wine? I've heard the Count is a fan."

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Castle Serenno, South Wing

Lene trails her fingers along the ancient stone walls as they pass quietly through the empty corridors.

"The stone is original from here on," Dooku murmurs, two feet to her left, as he draws a small device from his cloak. One quick snap against the pale tip of the pyramid sparks a pale green light to illuminate the whole of its form, bathing their immediate surroundings and no further. 

"You couldn't install _lights_?"

He ignores the comment in favor of nudging the device into the air with a press of the Force. "They are unneeded."

"They're _useful_ — for your disposition, if nothing more," Lene mutters. She glances over her shoulder, frowning into the murk.

"It's best he doesn't follow."

"After everything I've seen, I'm not sure _either_ of you is qualified to determine what's best for _anyone_ ," she sighs. 

Dooku doesn't bother withholding the soft chuckle that drifts into the silence following their bubble of light down into the depths. "One might be inclined to believe you, Master Kostana, if you weren't so eager to follow."

She shoots him a sharp glare. "I have _days_ yet, Dooku."

"And a lifetime of curiosity," the Count amiably agrees. 

"A curiosity that feeds inevitably back to the Order." 

It's not the first time she's hammered on the reminder. As if Fisto's presence wasn't enough. As if he is not completely aware of everything that could end up in a detailed report sent back to the cloister of fools clinging to outdated philosophy.

As if he doesn't know, firsthand, exactly how much has always been conveniently omitted from her reports. 

"We're here." He comes to a stop with his words, opening the wall with a wave of his arm and a liberal push in the Force. 

Kostana's gaze widens as the light drifts forward to illuminate the rows of shelves, tables, and machinery scattered through the cavernous room. "… Dooku… this is…" She takes a cautious step forward — no doubt called by the same sick-sweet-siren sensation pouring into the hall with each moment the door stays open — and stops, one hand raised like a shield before her. 

"As I said, Master Kostana," he announces with a grand sweep of his arm to welcome her through the doorway, "My home and all within it… is open to you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### From The Author:
> 
> Oh jeez, it's BEEN A WHILE, huh? 
> 
> Sorry for the random hiatus, everyone. Yours truly keeps managing to catch something and this time it was a jaw infection. orz. So. That was… fun? Anyway, here's a lot of plot and some surprises! 
> 
> I certainly get a kick out of incorporating as much canon references/dialogue as possible, so if you had a moment of "… wait a minute…” the answer is "yes, that was probably intentional" lol.
> 
> #### Fun Times:
> 
> We know almost nothing about Altiri aside from they are basically human and occasionally purple? I went back through Dooku: Jedi Lost and I couldn't even find Kostana's _hair color_. So, uh, we won't talk about it and Altiri live generically longer-ish than humans. Because reasons.
> 
> Also Dooku was literally in his early 80s in the prequels, so, yeah. 
> 
> Anyway, for those wondering:
> 
> #### Sith Code
> 
> **Sith** | **Basic**  
> ---|---  
> Nwûl tash. | Peace is a lie,  
> Dzwol shâsotkun. | there is only passion.  
> Shâsotjontû châtsatul nu tyûk. | Through passion, I gain strength.  
> Tyûkjontû châtsatul nu midwan. | Through strength, I gain power.  
> Midwanjontû châtsatul nu asha. | Through power, I gain victory.  
> Ashajontû kotswinot itsu nuyak. | Through victory, my chains are broken.  
> Wonoksh Qyâsik nun. | The Force shall free me.  
>   
> * * *
> 
> AE: What— why is there Black Speech?  
> w3: It’s Sith.  
> AE: Okay but… it looks like Black Speech.  
> w3: It’s the Sith Code.  
> AE: Well it looks like someone tried to write Black Speech while drunk.  
> w3: I mean, it was literally made for a Star Wars video game over a decade ago so…. Probably?
> 
> * * *
> 
> AE and I have a running dialogue about the goings on at Castle Serenno and the most recent tidbits include:
> 
> Dooku: _Sithly meditation in the Dark because he’s a dramatic fucker_  
>  Sifo-Dyas: _opens the door_ … Why are the lights off? _turns them on_  
>  Dooku: _mutters about atmosphere_
> 
> This is basically their daily life.
> 
> ### RELEVANT TIMELINE UPDATES:
> 
> **  
> _21 BBY_  
>  **
> 
>   * _Rush Clovis does some war profiteering, realizes he's a bit of a cunt, gets removed from his seat in the Senate._
>   * _(aka: TCW S2:E4, "Senate Spy")_
> 

> 
> **  
> _20 BBY_  
>  **
> 
>   * _Rush continues working for the Banking Clan, ultimately finding the same, damning information concerning clan leadership and their role in the war._
> 

> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis Is Killed By Palpatine & Darth Akis
>   * Battle of Sundari  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn't
>   * The Departure of the Sith
>   * <Shatterpoint> Dooku kills the entire Separatist (Leadership) Council
>   * _Clovis shows the remaining Banking Clan leadership what he already knows in light of everyone else being dead._  
> 
>   * _Is appointed Interim Leader of the Banking Clan_
>   * _Immediately aligns them more strongly with the Republic because shit be cray_
> 

> 
> **18 BBY**
> 
>   * Official End of The Clone Wars
> 

> 
> __  
> **[ … to Present ]**  
> 
> 
>   * Rush frantically slaps duct tape on a crumbling financial system in desperate attempt to prevent the complete collapse of the banking system, ultimately decides he needs the other half of the puzzle and jumps on the first plausible reason to make inquiries directly to the man he's pretty sure orchestrated part of it.
> 



	21. In Which Anakin Wears A Helmet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unrepentant fluff with a side of baffled Jedi.
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “Not Quite Paradise” by Bliss 66
    
    
    Message-ID: <8293Y4VN.09860408@JO.CRC>
    Date: Cen, 07 04 0986
    From: Kyora, Circle of Healers <184756@JO.CRC>
    Accept-Language: ba-CRC, ba
    To: Jedi High Council, Field Reports <JHC-Field@JO.CRC>
    Subject: Yavin - Transport To
    
    Recommend immediate investment in hyperspace routes.
    
    Reliance on current pilot unadvised.
    

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV, Outdoor Training Grounds

“How are they?”

Hett snorts his opinion of the question. “One of these days, you’ll call them ‘padawans’, Kenobi, I swear it.”

Obi-Wan just shakes his head, barely repressing a sigh as he draws even with the man watching a small squad of children break rank from orderly form practice into a dash for the far end of the clearing. He’s not really surprised, and, judging by the exasperation muting the feral gold in Hett’s narrowed gaze, neither is their instructor. 

“They were fine until Skywalker showed up,” A’Sharad grumbles with a sigh for the morning’s lessons. “As usual.”

Anakin breaks through the foliage on the other end of the clearing and is immediately tackled by three of the older children. One lands in his arms and two in the air with a warm burst of a Force signature all of them have felt since the Jedi ship touched down several minutes ago now. Obi-Wan can’t hear the words exchanged as the younger initiates join the first group, vying for Anakin’s attention in an eager babble only encouraged by the love-relief-cheer radiating from the proud well of strength that is Anakin’s presence in the Force. 

“Tch.” Hett turns to him with the sound of disapproval, sharp gaze narrowed. “We’re rescuing the Jedi, then?”

Obi-Wan blinks, immediately turning his attention back to the initiates — and his husband, not even a third of the way into the clearing, now crouching down amidst the crowd. The older kids have given way to the younger, allowing them to exchange tugging on Anakin’s robes for straight up climbing over him. Anakin’s smile is broad enough to carry the distance even without the steady beat of joy echoing through their bond.

“… You’re worse than the _younglings_ ,” Hett mutters as he strides past, momentarily obscuring the view with a pointed nod to the figure Obi-Wan only just notices lingering at the tree line. 

He has the grace to press mild chagrin into the Force between them as he sweeps forward to keep pace with Hett’s swift strides. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan’s gaze drifts as they pass the mound of children in makeshift robes tumbling to the ground as Anakin straightens, hauling a wriggling Togruta up by the back of her tunic, eliciting a squeal of delight from the youngling.

“And _what_ are you all running away from, hmmm?” The soft laugh in Anakin’s voice undermines the admonishment in his question. 

“It was just _forms_!”

“And you just got back!”

“That’s no reason to interrupt practice,” Anakin solemnly informs them, setting his latest catch on to the ground again so he can fix his clothes. 

“But we waited _forever_!" says the Togruta.

"Yeah! From the moment you touched down," an older, Nautolan boy enthusiastically chimes.

"Nuh-uh!"

" _I_ sensed you in the atmosphere," a small human girl imperiously declares from the rim of the group.  


“Anyway, Uncle _Darth_ knows—”

Obi-Wan’s gaze shifts back to Hett as they pass, one eyebrow raised. The man glares defiantly in return and continues marching on in silence. Anakin’s mirth is somehow louder in the bond, only keeping himself reigned in enough to listen to the children’s excuses for ditching the instructor now passing them by, but the smirk never leaves his expression. 

"All right, all right!" A sharp clap of his hands accompanies Anakin's words, cheerful ease colliding with just enough of the edge of command to drag all the children to attention. "How about a spar, then?"

"… A tournament?" the girl queries, somewhere between interested and suspicious. 

"Nah, all against one, right, Dad?" a Zabrak boy eagerly announces from the balls of his feet.

"That seems hardly fair _or_ challenging."

Anakin barely represses his laughter to the bond and glances over towards the pile of equipment on the opposite end of the clearing, one hand raised to grasp the hilt of a training saber that flies out amidst a gasp and cheer of excitement from the small pool of children. "I'm sure I'll _survive_ , Anya," he chuckles, taking a few steps back to gain enough room for a short flick of his wrist into an open guard.

Then, after a short reassessment, he grins and raises his hand again. On the edge of the clearing, the bag of equipment jerks up, twisting in midair until a beat-up Mandalorian helmet emerges and shoots across the clearing into his free hand. He flicks it around so the hastily painted orange and white markings are on display as he shoves it on his head to the cheers of the small crowd.

"Just… pretend I'm ' _Darth Anakin_ ’: _Dark Lord of the Sith_!" His announcement is accompanied with an appropriately dramatic slash of the training saber and an ominously dropped voice. 

Several younglings glance between each other at that, and then turn in eerie synchronization to cast doubtful looks in the direction of Hett. Obi-Wan smothers his amusement with a hand over his mouth, but shifts his attention accordingly. A'Sharad gives an irritated wave of his hand in Anakin's direction — effectively shunting the class's attention back to Anakin and his ridiculous antics. 

True to Anya's words, it's neither fair _nor_ challenging. 

For Anakin.

“An interesting welcoming committee.”

The commentary draws Obi-Wan's attention back to their _actual_ reason for crossing the clearing: the Pantoran woman in creamy white robes radiating cool stillness beneath the already hazy heat of mid morning. The gold ornaments securing thick, fuchsia plaits to the top of her head glint in the already oppressive light of Yavin’s aggressive sun as she turns her attention from Anakin to the pair of men before her, seeming to linger on Hett in particular. If the man feels any particular way about the intense scrutiny, he’s far too good at obscuring it behind an ever-present scowl for anyone to notice. 

“Welcome to Yavin, Knight Kyora,” Obi-Wan greets with a formal bow in lieu of addressing any of the implications directly. He extends an arm to Hett as he straightens. “I am sure Anakin has already told you of our current—”

“Sith,” she curtly interrupts, piercing yellow gaze unmoving from the man in question.

Well. Things can only go up from here, Obi-wan supposes.
    
    
    Message-ID: <8293Y4VN.09860409@JO.CRC>
    Date: Cen, 07 04 0986
    From: Kyora, Circle of Healers <184756@JO.CRC>
    Accept-Language: ba-CRC, ba
    To: Jedi High Council, Field Reports <JHC-Field@JO.CRC>
    CC: Circle of Jedi Healers, Records <CoH_Records@JO.CRC>
    Subject: Yavin - Concerns
    
    Rumors of Sith involvement partially confirmed. No immediate intervention required. 
    
    I am beginning to understand the need for healers. There appears to be a significant amount of emotional attachment between initiates and their instructors, at least one of which is confirmed Fallen. 
    
    I have expressed my concerns directly to local leadership. They are uncooperative.
    
    Please see attached requests for personnel files and respond swiftly.
    
    Resource List: Kenobi_Obi-Wan.flm, Skywalker_Anakin.flm, Tano_Ahsoka.flm, Hett_A'Sharad.flm 
    

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV, Lost Jedi City

"Stop!"

Kyora draws up short just shy of the wide junction. Suddenly, there's a young woman at her side urgently pulling her back the way she came with a surprisingly strong grip on her forearm. Curious. 

"Bike," her new companion quite seriously informs her as they settle back a couple of feet, narrow brown eyes peering up at her from a heart shaped face she presumes humans find attractive. 

"Bike?" Kyora blankly repeats, instinctively pressing forward in the Force for the information she's missing.

The small woman blinks back at her, radiating confusion and little else. Not Force sensitive, then. Perhaps another asylum seeker? She'd seen some the previous day during a tour of the underground facilities — largely groups of Twi'lek and Togruta rescued from black markets, who had no homes they wanted to return to. Kyora supposes the woman before her is pretty enough to fall into that category. She’s _certainly_ young enough. 

"Bike," the human repeats, shifting a wide bundle of cloth against her hip as she steps closer to the junction again, one hand pointing to a painted outline that indeed resembles a hoverbike. As if on cue, one flies through the junction under the confident guidance of a former trooper clearly not expecting anyone in the corridor.

"Oh, I see," Kyora says with a nod to the woman. "Thank you."

Her companion smiles brightly and presses a panel just beneath the painting. "New?"

"Indeed." Kyora tilts her head, trying to place the woman's long, pale blue tunic and slim white pants beneath to any of the societies she's familiar with. Nothing quite coming to mind, she switches to Huttese. "I am Jedi Knight Kyora, may I have your name?"

This, if anything, only seems to confuse the woman further. She glances across the way, apparently doesn't see what she's looking for, and turns back. What follows is an even rougher attempt at Huttese than her previously short, but effective Basic. "Am Kei. Do not speak Hutt."

Well, a useful phrase around here, at least. 

"I see. Basic, then?" Kyora attempts again.

Kei smiles again. "Yes. Basic. Very little, but enough." She turns back towards the junction again, where a blue light now illuminates the passage beyond, and snatches Kyora by the arm without even a whisper of warning passing into the Force. "Cross now."

"Of course," Kyora demurs, moving swiftly to match pace, lest they get caught by what seems to be the Yavin version of heavy traffic. She probably shouldn't be surprised; it was clear by the end of her first day that they didn't spend more time on the surface than required, so of course their transport also exists below ground. Idly, she wonders if that particular aspect was built into the city when the Jedi founded it, or if it is yet another modification made along the way.

"Laundry?" 

Kei looks up at her from nearly a foot down, still smiling, and Kyora belated realizes what the large bundle of cloth balanced against the woman's hip must be. "Ah, no, Kei. I was just… well, I suppose I was taking a look around."

"Hm." Perfect confusion echoes from her presence in the Force – surprisingly so for someone who doesn't _seem_ sensitive to it. Otherwise, the woman appears to retain her good mood, shrugging lightly in open acknowledgement that she didn't follow all of her answer.

"If I may ask," Kyora begins, taking care to pronounce each word and wait for the shift from confusion to comprehension before continuing, "why are you here?"

This, at least, spawns a bright smile. "Laundry," Kei pronounces with a pointed squeeze of the bundle at her side. 

A Jedi is not so easily dissuaded, Kyora reminds herself. Disappointment and frustration slip gently into the Force and she attempts a different tactic. "Family?"

"Yes!" Finally, they're getting somewhere. "My husband," Kei eagerly continues with a renewed sense of excitement and welcome swirling around her in the Force. "His song is strong." For some inexplicable reason, her earnest words seem to cause a prominent blush. "He trains here… learns? Grows strong."

It's been barely a day since she spiraled (unnecessarily) out of the sky and this is at least the _third_ time Kyora has experienced the distinct sensation of her stomach bottoming out with worry. "Your husband… trains in the Force?"

* * *

"I _swear_ it's not like you're thinking, Madam Jedi."

The boy is _hardly_ old enough to have a wife, Kyora thinks with probably more prejudice than entirely warranted. He bows again in that way of a padawan caught dallying when they should have been practicing. It looks utterly ridiculous from a bench seat in one of many rows of tables at the edge of a large dining hall. The long braid dangling over his shoulder is _not_ helping – either his defense, nor her opinion of it. 

"And how, then, _should_ I be thinking of it?"

“A cultural exchange?” Obi-Wan offers from across the table. Exasperated amusement drifts out into the Force between the three of them in that strange way so many people here seem intent to inflict their emotions upon each other. 

"Marriage has not been used as a 'cultural exchange' in civilized society for _thousands of years_ ," Kyora very flatly informs both men, flicking her gaze between them enough to catch the boy's open cringe at the same moment Obi-Wan's amusement turns mildly… justified? Keeping track of it all is going to give her a headache.

"Yes, well, unfortunately for us all, Caje has an apparently irresistible voice and an inability to keep it to himself," he says.

The boy – Caje – collapses to the table with all the dramatic flare only teenagers and Sith Lords possess. Kyora remains unsure if she can write off the latter just yet. 

"I wasn't _trying_ to get married!" he groans, pushing himself up with a pleading expression in Obi-Wan's direction. The former Jedi Master simply arches an eyebrow expectantly. Caje turns back to her, a strange wash of urgency-distress-earnestness splashing heavily through the Force. It's a little disconcerting. "Honestly, Ms. Kyora– Kei's nice and mum feels some kind of way about the whole thing, but we're not _married_ -married. I just… I was just—"

"Peace, Caje. You're projecting," Kenobi intervenes, reaching out to offer a grounding hand against the building miasma settling thickly into the Force surrounding them. It turns swiftly to embarrassment-frustration instead, but Caje accepts the hand, no matter the self-conscious flush coloring the tips of his ears. 

"Sorry, I…" His hold tightens. 

"It's okay. Take a moment." 

Kyora can't help watching in mute fascination as the strange warmth of Kenobi's presence in the Force ripples into the undeniable stillness of a Jedi Master and expands to encourage the same from his charge. Caje exhales tightly, and closes his eyes. As she watches, tension she hadn't even noticed bleeds out of her own form just as much as the Force itself, and then, slowly, the dense tangle of emotions drifting around the young man dissipates. 

Caje inhales slowly and straightens in his seat. The flush hasn't entirely disappeared, but he pulls his hand back with a nod of thanks to the master who offered the tether he clearly needed. Kyora barely refrains from reaching out to push the man into a healing trance that will let her find the root of the entire episode she just witnessed. Kenobi flashes her an unreadable expression – even by Jedi standards — but she has the distinct impression he knows precisely the urge she's repressing. 

"Apologies, Ma'am." Caje says, redirecting her attention back to where he sits at her side, one hand in the dark brown hair at the back of his head and only a vague feeling of chagrin lingering in his signature. "That's, uh, why 'm here, you see."

"Caje is one of our first students," Obi-Wan explains of the cryptic statements. "His family tracked us down after the Treaty. His connection to the Force is rather strongly empathic."

"… So I've noticed," Kyora murmurs, her tone far more contemplative now that — she suspects — all her irritation and concern isn't being reflected back at her, magnified by the boy's own distress. "And Kei?"

Kenobi gives a long sigh and gestures for Caje to begin again. The color returns to the boy’s cheeks, but this time his shields seem to hold. "On Kijimi — ah, that's where we used to live — we had mountain songs. They didn't… mean anything? It's just… somethin' to do out with the herd, or if yer building, you know?"

Kyora shifts back, crossing her arms thoughtfully. "I have heard of such things in isolated communities and nomadic tribes," she eventually muses. "I imagine it's a useful method of communication across mountain valleys."

Caje, unexpectedly, completely lights up with her answer. "Yes, exactly! You can make sure everyone's where they're supposed ta be, and still be alone. I used ta spend all my time out in the fields like that. If everyone was far enough away, I could think again. So I… I don't know, I still _like_ people, you know? I just couldn't really stay around them. So I used to sing back. Practically my whole life."

Kyora furrows her brow, but Kenobi chimes in before she can ask the obvious question.

“We weren’t on Kijimi,” he says, straightening in his seat in a way that draws all attention to him and off the boy. “It was a small system, barely on the map and fairly newly colonized. We were asked to settle a dispute between —"

"Asked by whom?"

Kenobi presses his lips together, but all Kyora can see or sense is a vague amusement, of all things. "The Confederate Parliament."

Her eyes narrow, the hint of a frown tugging at her lips but withheld. "The Count—"

" _Parliament_ ," Obi-Wan quite firmly interrupts, though the force of the words notably lacks the emotionality she's expecting with it. He raises a hand briefly in a gesture she only remembers old Masters and Councilors making when moving a discussion away from something they consider extraneous details. "They have been quite busy with the fallout of the war on already established planets. This one was rather new to galactic politick and needed a hand working out a local matter that was impeding their entry into the Confederacy. Caje had, by then, improved considerably since we began and I felt the low population would facilitate a good test of his shielding."

"And it was!" Caje hastily interjects. "I— really it was a wonderful trip. It's not like we could travel all that much when I was younger, you know? Yavin was the first time I could be around people for a long time, and I — I had a lot of help. They're really… It's never been s' quiet. In my own head, I mean."

The sense of amusement returns, but this time softened by an air of fondness and Kyora belatedly realizes Kenobi's presence has shifted back to the strange, almost constant projection from earlier. It had been so subtle she'd entirely missed it. As surreal as this experience has been, it's often so easy to forget this man was a Jedi Master — one so many others _still_ speak of with a consistent level of respect. Now, it seems, that incredible skill and tenacity has been set entirely to the challenge before him, which includes, apparently, participating in a method of communication entirely antithetical to everything they were ever taught.

It's difficult not to be impressed. 

Kyora shifts her attention carefully from master to padawan, tracing the supportive pressure in the Force with the movement. "I would very much like to speak with you on what that process has been like for you, Caje." He startles, straightening in his seat, glancing uncertainly in Kenobi's direction, but she continues before either can get a word in edgewise. "However, at the moment I would prefer you finish explaining Kei's presence in this colony. Particularly her claims to _marriage_."

Caje immediately colors again and has to clear his throat before continuing. "Yes, well, I— like I said, it's not like I was _trying_ to get married. Honest. I just… Second Da— er, Master Kenobi? — thought I should come along, and he was busy with the discussions and all that, so I… took a look around? It was all… we were visiting a town that was pretty similar to home – er, my old one. On Kijimi. But the veg and animals and alla that is — well it was really different, you know?"

Kyora waits patiently through a silence that Caje seems to find awkward. Had she been supposed to add something? What an inefficient way of communicating. It certainly would have been worked out of the child by _now_ had he been properly instructed in the Temple.

"Er — so, yeah, I ended up at the edge of town, and it was kind of a nice break from, you know, everyone? So I went a little further, I … I heard this song comin' out of the valley and I… I don't know, I was in a good mood and no one was singing _back_ so I thought… I just thought I'd sing back? It seemed sad to just… let her go unanswered."

Another pocket of silence forms, filled with obvious anxious glances from Caje to Obi-Wan, the former the very image of an uncertain padawan, the later the long-suffering Master. 

And – oh. "I see," Kyora murmurs after a moment's contemplation. "A local courtship ritual."

Caje sags with the force of his heavy sigh and nods. “The long and short, yeah.”

Kyora's attention swings sharply to her host. "And the reason you _went along_ with this?"

Kenobi's expression tightens and all of a sudden, Kyora can feel every one of the few years between them magnified by the weight of the office he stepped away from. She just barely refrains from straightening under that gaze like a padawan brought before the Council. "Because," he says in tones of endless patience, "we aren't _Jedi_ , Master Kyora."

"I don't see what that—"

"The systems that would have, perhaps, mitigated the fallout of such a situation do not _exist_ for us," Obi-Wan quietly continues. The words are even, measured, and with all the meter of a planned lecture. "If Caje had publicly rejected Kei, it would have reflected quite poorly on her and her family. It would have, equally, been a rather drawn out process to do so, since in answering he had, by custom, already established interest and thus essentially locked out competition."

"That is—"

" _Reality_ , Knight Kyora," Kenobi interrupts with the distinct impression of reprimand slipping into the Force before it dissipates. "The Confederacy is not the Republic. If this had been a _Republic_ request, there are diplomatic channels that could have been activated. There were contingencies within the Order, too, if it was determined it was best to maintain the impression of acceptance. We do not have those resources." 

He leans back with a shrug that belies the weight given to his words so far and she can't help feeling wrong-footed in the transition.

"Could we have passed her on to the Confederate authorities? Certainly it was an option, but ultimately not the best. We have facilities: food, shelter, some manner of education. Most importantly, however, we have _Caje_ , the only person she feels secure with and, at the moment, the only one who can properly communicate with her."

Caje ducks his head again, and embarrassment splashes brightly into the Force again. Kyora briefly reconsiders the strength of her own shields, if this headache is to become a daily occurrence for her. 

"I'm…" He mumbles something, one hand at the back of his neck again. At the sound of Kenobi's pointed throat clear, he sighs and straightens again, hesitantly meeting her gaze again. "I've always been good with, uh… languages?"

"Or the lack of them, really," Obi-Wan amusedly puts in. "It's been quite helpful at times, actually."

The idle commentary seems to shore up some of Caje's flagging confidence, his hand slipping from his neck to tug on his padawan braid instead. "I just… you know… listen? People are so much louder in the Force. Generally."

Well. That's. Kyora draws a slow breath, pulling back behind momentarily reinforced shielding to consider the utter absurdity before her. It's been years since this particular talent has shown itself so strongly before training. That it also shows in someone apparently incredibly sensitive to the presence of consciousnesses surrounding him makes her itch to explore, discuss, and generally pick apart until she's found the root of it. 

And they _missed this_. 

Her gaze flicks back to the Master calmly waiting out her silence across the table. There's a certainty to how he watches her, one corner of his lips quirked up like he knows exactly what's going through her mind just then. It's disconcerting. The Order tasked her with this, she knows, because she, of all the Circle, has been off-world the most in recent years. Mercy missions, medical advisories, the list is long and centers largely on the hardest hit areas. On planets and moons and stations _this man_ dug out of Confederate grasp inch by bloody inch half a decade ago. 

Now he sits across from her, at a refurbished ancient table, maintaining an independent colony of ex-soldiers, former slaves, and a blind selection of Force sensitives — _and their families_ — against all reason. He sits, and he knows, and he waits, because the one thing the Council couldn't prepare her for wasn't a Jedi Master, or even a Fallen one. It was the Negotiator they trained and let loose on the galaxy ready and willing to meet her — no, to meet the _Order_ — step by step before she even knows where she's going and what's going to surprise her next. 

Step by step in defense of this insane enterprise that, Force help her, might just be _working_.

Kyora exhales carefully. "I have concerns."

"I'm sure."

"And _several_ questions."

Kenobi's chuckle is somewhat expected, at least. He turns to his student. "I think that's all we'll need you for, Caje. Dogma should still be expecting you for History lessons, if I recall?"

Caje startles where he sits, wide-eyed and blinking as the words sink in. "But I— That's on the entire other end of—"

"I suggest running, then."

He scrambles off the bench in a flurry of brown robes and bitten back curses, then a boost of Force-assisted speed launches him through the door and swiftly out of sight. Kyora watches the entire escapade with all the quiet judgement a single raised eyebrow can bring to bear before turning back to face Obi-Wan directly.

"We _did_ interrupt his training session."

"… His mother?"

Her question seems to catch him off guard for a moment, but then he's remembered the earlier part of Caje's rambling explanation and gives a wry little chuckle. "Ah, about the marriage. Well… Telun was furious with me."

Kyora shifts forward a bit, unprepared for that sort of answer. " _Furious?_ "

"Oh yes. It took quite some time to talk her down," Obi-Wan quite genially offers, a complete contrast to the previously aloof persona when the boy had been present. "Caje was only … 15 or so at the time? Kei is actually a couple years his senior, it turns out, but either way Telun was rather understandably upset her child was married quite before marriageable age, and that some poor young woman had been dragged into the mess. "

"Yes. I can see why that might be cause for concern," Kyora levelly observes.

It earns her a wry expression, at least. "She and her husband have been invaluable to our settlement here, actually, so it was quite tense for a while. In part, it turns out, because they were protective of Kei's position in this as well." Obi-Wan shrugs lightly with his words, but a sense of success-pride-trust slips into the Force between them, almost, it seems, on instinct. "Ultimately, they welcomed Kei into their family, although I think it is more in the vein of a daughter than a daughter-in-law."

"And _Kei_ is content with this?"

Obi-Wan makes a brief motion to the side. "She expected to join her husband's family, and so in that respect, she has the kind of support she wants to have in the moment. We've been doing what we can — Telun in particular — to get her up to speed with Basic and into classes, but beyond that it's really up to her. It's been difficult to relay the notion that she need not be paired to Caje without her feeling rejected, so until we can settle that problem in particular, the whole situation continues to be a work in progress."

Kyora frowns and lifts her tablet from the table to make notes.
    
    
    Message-ID: <8293Y4VN.09860410@JO.CRC>
    Date: Tau, 08 04 0986
    From: Kyora, Circle of Healers <184756@JO.CRC>
    Accept-Language: ba-CRC, ba
    To: Jedi High Council, Field Reports <JHC-Field@JO.CRC>
    Subject: Yavin - Clarification Requested
    
    Mission guidelines dictate observation of Jedi Order operational schism.
    
    Actual incidence of Force Sensitives to population, while well above Republic standard, remains far lower than anticipated. I have thus provided additional notes regarding the population at large (see attached report).
    
    Please advise if mission guidelines should be expanded to encompass primary populace.
    
    Resource List: YAVINIV_09860408.holo
    

### 14 BBY, 4th Month (one day later): Yavin IV, Lost Jedi City

"What did you say this was?"

"A pantry?"

Kyora looks doubtfully from her clone guide to the now-closed door and back again, eyebrows raised just slightly. Tinker stares back uncertainly, as if he's not entirely sure why the awkward silence is happening, but feels somehow responsible for it. 

"… Skywalker's, uh… experimental pantry?" 

She presses her lips together and turns back with a swipe of her hand over the door pad. The door slides open with a near-silent hiss, small pockets of light spotlighting shelves and various workspaces, including the entire back wall. Cases are stacked full on the shelves: some durasteel with hermetic seals, some clear enough to see layers of carefully flayed and meticulously labeled rows of — worms. Almost entirely worms. 

Kyora steps more carefully into the room than the man that follows, though he lingers at the door as she drifts forward to carefully inspect workbenches that look like they've been dragged straight from a holo-horror set piece. There are at least seven different bladed instruments on any given surface, all of which appear strikingly well cared for in spite of the general chaos of the workspace. Several jars and similar containers line the counter against the back walls, each appearing filled to differing degrees with liquids or gels of some form. Some are too opaque to see through, but she catches flicker of movement in more than one. 

“We probably shouldn't be messing with the experiments," Tinker calls over from where the door spills hallway light into the room. Her look and sudden recoil must be stiffer than intended, judging by how quickly he adds, “That is… if you don't mind, Master Jedi."

Taking a moment to focus on allowing her somewhat disjointed concerns to settle, Kyora carefully folds her hands in front of her and gives her guide a small, accepting nod. She takes a step back towards the entrance, casting one last glance over her shoulder to the patch of wall illuminated by a single, blue spotlight at the far end of the room. A somewhat haphazard grouping of insects, arachnids, and beetles splay by size over the full height of the wall: some small enough to be held in place with a single pin, some large enough to require something akin to bolts. Beside the odd insect board is just a smattering of worm corpses centering around something she initially mistook for a meter-long _snake_.

It is, she's quite certain, a detailed dissection of a ridiculously large invertebrate for some reason displayed in a manner of triumph.

“If we hurry,” Tinker says as they step out of the room, “we can probably still catch dinner.”

She turns her attention back to her guide as the door hisses shut behind her, surprised to find the man in good spirits. “… You are hungry?”

“Ah, yeah? Aren’t you?” He answers with a blink that tugs the burn scars on the right side of his face. 

Kyora reminds herself, for perhaps the hundredth time since she’s arrived, not to recommend a course of treatment for something that really should have been taken care of already. Instead, she pulls a pad from her robes, checking the time as she makes her notes. “I suppose we _have_ been at this for some hours now. Food sounds like a good idea.” She flicks her gaze up long enough to observe the spark of enthusiasm-anticipation that follows. “You seem… particularly excited.”

He grins. “Course I am. Didn’t you see the announcement earlier? Skywalker got ice cream on the menu tonight!”

* * *

Kyora blinks at the surprisingly _electric_ bustle that greets them at the entrance to the main commissary. Although fairly late into the dinner hour, there remain several groups relaxing at tables and leaning against walls, chatting evocatively with small bowls and tin cups in hand. Not as full as it was at midday — with its seemingly endless churn of students and residents through the tables from the moment lunch became available until just before they cleared out for dinner — but lively with pockets that look like families and friend groups overlapping in ways rather reminiscent of creches and lineages back home.

Tinker abandons her with a loose salute almost before she even walks inside, jogging over to where one of his brothers scoops a bright blue, frozen treat into, she suspects, one of the last available dishes: a somewhat larger than necessary plastic mug. Kyora finds herself… surprisingly curious. She can’t recall much in the way of _dessert_ at her last few meals, if one excepts the local berries. If this is as rare as that, she has to wonder how it came about to begin with.

If that horrible room that looks nothing short of a Sith Ritual chamber is a _pantry_ , should she assume this, too, is made of worms?

“I suspect you’ll prefer this flavor.”

“Master Kenobi,” she acknowledges with a blink for the small, ceramic dish extended to her. He gives her the same, quietly amused expression he’s given her since she gave up attempting to correct the title from her speech. “It is… black?” Because, really, she’s seen a lot of things in life, but somehow black ice cream is still new.

His answer is a low chuckle and a spark of mirth in his Force signature. “Try it.”

It’s ridiculous to be suspicious of her hosts by this point, but Kyora can’t help thinking of Skywalker’s so-called pantry as she eyes the small scoop provided. It’s only a moment, and then she carves a small amount off with the accompanying tiny spoon and carefully tries the flavor. Recognition widens her eyes the second the distinct flavor hits her tongue and she swallows quickly. “Temple licorice?”

“Quite distinctive, isn’t it?”

“How did you _get_ this?” Kyora presses, no longer suspicious, just genuinely curious. It’s not exactly a common flavor; many species seem to think it not sweet enough to be considered a dessert.

“From the Temple.” Obi-Wan chuckles softly at her nonplussed expression and raises a hand to invite her further into the room. “You could ask Anakin, but he seems… unlikely… to reveal his source.”

Kyora follows at the easy pace her host has chosen, carefully drawing another spoonful from the bowl to allow her a moment’s contemplative silence. Fortunately, the former Councilor at least seems to understand the need for such moments of quiet contemplation. It is decidedly not the case for the rest of the room, but she has to admit it a fair bit more reminiscent of the Temple’s liveliness than _Coruscant’s_. All around them, pockets of conversation add to the constant buzz of activity, but the overriding feeling weaving through the Force around them remains simple contentment.

Their impromptu stroll weaves them between a group of what appear to be various youths on the verge of padawanship and a small, Twi’lek family incongruously chattering with a boy whose clothes mark him for a creche. The ones who aren’t padawans tug each other out of the way of the adults passing through, and one of the Twi’lek women waves to Obi-Wan as they pass by. He returns the gesture with a small raise of his hand and an easy smile. Kyora can’t help thinking of a standing memo from the war; mind the stubbornness of Councilors when detained for proper recuperation — and the too-easy way this one in particular was known for slipping their care. Perhaps the warmth in his Force signature and his ease in emoting similarly didn’t come with quite as much difficulty as she’d previously thought.

“Oh, you’re _really_ trying to make a good impression with the Order, huh?”

Kyora pauses halfway through scooping her latest spoonful of licorice ice cream to blink at the Togruta woman who’s joined them — with her own small cup of the same.

Obi-Wan’s sigh is more felt than heard. “Ahsoka, you know very well—”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re just looking out for delicate, Jedi constitutions,” she interrupts with a wave that clearly dismisses the topic, turning to Kyora to continue the conversation before the human can get a word in edgewise. “So did he give you his, or—”

“ _Ahsoka_ —”

“What? If Skyguy’s going on a rampage, she deserves a _warning_.” 

“I very much doubt—”

“ _Last time_ he made everyone who ate it move in with Krayt _for a month_.” 

They share a look and Obi-Wan finally raises his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “I ate mine earlier.”

Ahsoka’s eyes narrow sharply.

“…I have witnesses,” Obi-Wan dryly adds.

Kyora glances around for the man in question and swallows her spoonful. “I think,” she offers, immediately drawing the attention of both, “he may be too preoccupied to care.”

Ahsoka turns in the direction of Kyora’s gaze and grins. “Oh no…” She bites her lip against the low, intense amusement rippling through her signature. It does little to stifle her chuckles. “You abandoned him!”

“Oh, I assure you he’s been very much enjoying himself for the past several minutes,” Kenobi mildly returns, his humor infusing his words without devolving into actual laughter. 

“Mmmhmmm.” In spite of the skeptical tones, Ahsoka’s presence in Force remains one primarily of fond amusement than any real doubt or concern. “So you were heading over to rescue him, then?”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows raise in an open expression of pure innocence. “ _Rescue?_ When he’s so enjoying himself?” 

Ahsoka just shakes her head with a knowing look and turns to Kyora instead. “Comm me when you get tired of these two,” she dryly offers before slipping away into the crowd. 

Kyora shifts her gaze back to Obi-Wan and takes another bite of her possibly illicitly-acquired ice cream. It really is quite refreshing, she has to admit. 

“I suspect there may, in fact, be some rescuing involved,” Obi-Wan admits in tones that truly make her wonder if he considers that a bad thing and turns to guide her further into the room and the man currently swarmed by a small group of youths. 

There’s a grayish Nautolan boy she’s fairly certain she recognizes from the morning they landed, kneeling up from the bench Anakin chose some time ago, if the small pile of dishes on the table is any indication. The boy’s hands are tangled in the right half of Anakin’s hair, still for the moment as he observes the situation with some doubt. Anakin himself is apparently trying to keep from wincing, near as she can tell—it’s difficult to ignore his presence in the Force once alerted to it, but it’s _also_ surprisingly calm, open, and radiating steady warmth.

“That is _not_ the correct method,” a black-haired girl is primly informing the Nautolan struggling to disentangle his fingers from the criss-cross of dark blond hair he’s somehow woven them into.

Across the table, a younger, human boy with similarly angled features and dark hair rolls his eyes at the girl. “Anya, you’ve never braided anything in your _life_.”

“I’ve watched _Nana_!” she huffs with a defensive cross of her arms. “Besides, it’s not like _you’re_ any better.” Anya turns to the Nautolan, hand raised to make a plucking movement that produces an invisible tug on several strands at once. Anakin’s jaw clenches, but his presence remains steady as the Nautolan boy slips his hands from the weave with a small smile of thanks. “See? It’s like ribbon forms.”

The Nautolan tilts his head thoughtfully and nods with all the solemnity of a Jedi youngling. “I see. It’s just like knots!”

Kyora doesn’t feel a sense of alarm to match the panicked expression Anakin throws their direction, but she’s starting to suspect it has more to do with the bond neither will let her touch than any measure of control the man himself is exerting. She swallows another mouthful of ice cream and contemplatively watches a pair of Twi’lek teens jump into the fray from Anakin’s left. 

Obi-Wan, she notes, merely stops a short distance away to observe the carnage. 
    
    
    Message-ID: <8293Y4VN.09860433@JO.CRC>
    Date: Zhe, 09 04 0986
    From: Kyora, Circle of Healers <184756@JO.CRC>
    Accept-Language: ba-CRC, ba
    To: Jedi High Council, Field Reports <JHC-Field@JO.CRC>
    Subject: Yavin - Regarding Food
    
    Report attached detailing available allergen testing on local produce. Primary protein source appears to be a combination of native worms, beetles, and, at times, large avian creatures. 
    
    Concerning previous inquiries: please be advised Holonet connection remains unstable in the region. I have been informed there has been an ongoing project to improve connection for some years now. It does, however, appear largely hampered by lack of resources and remains a low priority. 
    
    Resource List: YAVINIV_09860409.holo, YAVINIV_09860409_ADDENDUM.holo
    

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV, Unnamed Jungle

After so many days spent in the cool underground of an old Jedi city, the heat and humidity of the surface jungle is more than enough to smother the air in her lungs before she’s even finished entering it. This isn’t the bearable warmth of the morning she arrived, either; the sun is already overhead by the time the metal doors part with a hiss of escaping air. Kyora instinctively raises a hand against the glare that slips in between layers of leaves, squinting through the golden shafts of light. The green of the foliage casts over the three of them as they exit, the woman who was padawan to the Chosen One holding quiet conversation with a surprisingly middle-aged Miralukan woman while Kyora keeps pace behind. 

She’s only there to observe, so she listens in silence as they wander through thick brush along no discernible path. Well, not to her, anyway—the other two seem to know exactly where they are going. Ahsoka strides forward with the strength and surety of the Jedi Knight she should have been, directing her two companions with each careful adjustment to the footing of their unseen path, a gentle ripple in the Force surrounding her that urges the plant life to avoid their procession. 

The Miralukan woman follows as unerringly as one would expect of a people so mired in the Force. Kyora is less surprised by how easily a creature without vision can surveil the admittedly troublesome terrain, and more curious about who this pupil is. And she _is_ a pupil. Ahsoka’s demeanor, while casual, had been _distinctly_ that of an instructor greeting her student. Never mind the age difference appearing rather, well, to the reverse of expectations. 

Even _beyond_ that, Miralukans have a storied history with the Jedi Order. Kyora distinctly recalls several papers on the Force basis of their evolutionary rejection of eyes, if nothing else. They are, as a people, one of the largest contingents among the Order. The thought of this woman somehow having been overlooked for admission in her youth borders on the impossible. _Especially_ decades before the Clone Wars. 

The Togruta, at least, she has a file on, but until now Kyora had largely considered the Force sensitive students to be a part of a larger, galaxy-wide diaspora. Individuals misplaced through war and all its resultant calamities. Perhaps, even, those from more out of the way systems the Order could not always pass through. Ahsoka glances over her shoulder around halfway through the trek, her expression somewhere between knowing and neutral, and gives a tight smirk.

It’s more amusement than explanation, a silent acknowledgement that her racing thoughts have not gone unnoticed. It’s enough to relay the same warning Kyora has received from every quarter — be they former Jedi, asylum seeker, or ex-soldier: Yavin is open to her inspection, but its _people_ are not. Observing their education and daily lives is one thing. If this woman doesn’t wish to explain why she is here, who she is, or even _her name_ , then Kyora simply won’t be told. 

They stop by a small stream some time well into the afternoon. Kyora can’t tell what ultimately made the decision for them, but settles on to a nearby root without comment. Ahsoka arches up into a full body stretch and then promptly drops herself in to a criss-crossed seat on the bank. 

“Well, that’s enough of a warmup,” she announces with a grin as the older woman settles across from her in kind. “Ready to give it a go?”

“If you are,” the Miralukan answers with a quirk of her lips. 

Kyora counsels herself against the curious stare she knows is all too apparent, but it’s difficult to tear her gaze from the vestigial sockets usually hidden behind a band or hood of cloth. She can’t recall ever seeing such a thing outside of the Medical Archives of the Jedi Temple. Eventually, she turns her attention back to their momentary instructor. Ahsoka is already opening a pocket along one of her belts and — Kyora’s sharp gasp turns both of them towards her. 

“That’s—”

“A Kyber crystal, yeah.”

“A _Sith_ crystal,” Kyora breathes, leaning forward now in open concern, observation be damned.

“Your thoughts betray you, Jedi.” 

Kyora looks up sharply, but sees only tight-lipped amusement in the Togruta woman before her. It takes her a moment longer to turn her attention to the woman who actually spoke. “Betray me?”

“Your alarm,” the Miralukan elaborates, raising a hand as if to trace a gentle wave about Kyora’s form. “And… fear. The crystal feeds upon it it.”

“Which is precisely why such crystals should not be messed with,” Kyora answers more tersely than her typical calm, but settles back regardless. It’s more difficult than she anticipates to settle the churn of concern and disapproval within her, a problem she quite heavily suspects to be created by the small, angry red gem rolling about in Ahsoka’s hand. She draws a breath and begins again, “These crystals are Force sensitive and _dangerous_ when tampered with. It could lash out at any moment. Merely handling it — the damage that can be dealt to oneself from merely attempting to —”

“Use it?” Ahsoka interrupts, tossing the crystal up and catching it in her hand, a distinct note of disbelief in her voice. “I witnessed multiple masters — and some foolhardy padawans — wield their opponent’s blades during the war, Master Jedi. They were no worse off for it.” There’s a chuckle in the back of her throat, barely held in check as she tosses the small crystal across the way, into her student’s awaiting hands. 

Exhale troubles, Kyora mindfully repeats to herself, eyes riveted to the gem being tossed about like some child’s toy. “In the midst of battle, where the crystal’s talents lie, surrounded by the protective casing of a hilt, I would imagine the effect is not quite so _immediate_ ,” she allows, “however the manner in which you handle it now — you _were_ Jedi once, Ahsoka Tano. You know what it means to bond with a crystal. To hear its music… you could not possibly believe it beneficial to attune with something so… full of violence and anger.”

Ahsoka tilts her head as if to consider Kyora’s words, but turns to her student instead. “Is that what you sense, Eibaey?”

The woman settles back, settling her hands low in her lap with the crystal resting benignly in her upturned palms. Her presence in the force, Kyora realizes, is remarkably _still_. So much so that she’d nearly missed it until it shifted to carefully surround the small crystal she now focuses on. “I sense… violence, yes. And anger, as the Jedi said.”

Ahsoka holds a hand up before Kyora even realizes she meant to speak. “And beneath that?”

Eibaey’s brow furrows as she concentrates and her presence in the Force recedes once more. A moment passes in silence. Then another. Finally, amidst the bird calls and the chirps of bugs teeming in the underbrush, a quiet, tinkling chime resonates out through the Force. “… Pain.” This time, her voice carries the tremors of her revelation. “A deep anguish. It has… years innumerable and it cannot… It cannot— _remember_ —”

“Good, Eibaey,” Ahsoka murmurs, raising her hand between them. The crystal answers her call to it, flickering softly red and drifting carefully into the air above Eibaey’s hands. “Often,” Ahsoka says, voice still quiet as she focuses on the crystal with her student, letting it twist in the air as if reviewing its form, “pain will manifest as anger, fear and desperation as violence. It is the same for us all.”

Kyora presses her lips together, knowing she’s being lectured too, but too fascinated by the demonstration to acknowledge the irritation. She sets the thought aside to be addressed later and folds her legs beneath her to join the meditation instead. It’s strange, at first, to join a task not monitored by one of the Healers or a Jedi Master, but ultimately not entirely different. Her own discomfort is merely her own, and the other two adjust easily to her tentative presence. She cannot join them as deeply — for her own safety as much as her mission and her qualms would counsel against it — but it is a more in-depth look than afforded previously.

And when she does sink into the Force, following their careful probes and soothing brushes, it’s suddenly all too apparent _why_ Ahsoka spoke as she had.

“This crystal… it is… _injured_.”

Eibaey’s surprise is a cool ripple in the Force. “You did not know?”

“The Sith call it ‘bleeding’.” Ahsoka’s tones are low and instructive, her focus now returned to the crystal itself and her student beyond. “You already sensed the violence and anger within it before we ever started, but a Healer, of all people, should know all too well that isn’t the _nature_ of a kyber crystal.”

“But it _is_ the nature of an injured animal,” Kyora summarizes as profound realization passes over her. 

“And the nature of a Sith in battle,” Ahsoka grimly finishes with a slight frown.

Kyora blinks her vision back to the physical present enough to look to the young Togruta before her when she says, “If it is an injury, it can be treated.”

“It can be _healed_ , Master Jedi.” With that simple announcement, Ahsoka directs the crystal back to Eibaey’s waiting hands and withdraws her support as well. A moment passes to the sounds of the jungle and the bubble of the stream before she settles back entirely, content with her observations. “Eibaey?”

“Ready, Instructor.”

Alarm passes, observed, through Kyora and quietly disperses into the Force. “You intend to let _her_ attempt such a thing?”

Ahsoka’s expression turns wry with a twist of her lips. “Skyguy sent Eibaey to me _months_ ago, Kyora. It’s half the reason I was here when they decided to visit.”

“And you believe a few months is all that is needed to teach someone how to … ‘heal’ a crystal?”

“It’s all _Eibaey_ needs, yeah,” Ahsoka says, a quiet laugh in her voice. “She has a knack for these sorts of things, and I have already prepared her in every way I can. We are surrounded by the Living Force, _I_ am here. _You_ are here. She is ready.” She turns her gaze back to the woman across from her and sheer faith radiates from her presence in the Force. “One of the things I learned as a padawan was that, sometimes, the best thing you can do to support someone is believe in your own skill as a teacher.”

Kyora turns her attention alongside Ahsoka’s, questions churning through her mind. Although loath to interrupt the student or process she may yet witness, one thought in particular pushes her to ask, “And did Anakin teach you this as well?”

She doesn’t expect the derisive snort that follows, nor the quirk of Eibaey’s lips that shows her attention has at least momentarily shifted. “Skyguy _wishes_ he’d thought of this.” Ahsoka straightens where she sits, a sensation of triumph and success flowing out into the Force where it feels like pride should hover. “Although I guess you could say he caused the problem in the first place when he killed Maul.”

“On Mandalore? Yes, I have read the report. That was… _years_ ago,” Kyora murmurs beneath a furrowed brow.

“Yeah, and it was that long ago he salvaged Maul’s staff into a pair of sabers for me,” Ahsoka acknowledges with a pat of one of the hilts at her hip. “We may not have been in the order when he gave them to me, but even at the time I could see how many problems it’d cause to run around with red blades — Treaty or not.”

“Then, this is… _your_ technique?”

Ahsoka grins. “Want to see it in action?”

Kyora blinks slowly, taken aback, although whether from the unrepentant enthusiasm or her own surprisingly intense interest is up for debate. “Yes,” nevertheless leaps from her lips with barely a moment’s hesitation, “Yes, I very much _would_.”

“Eibaey?”

“I can do it.” 

True to her words, the Miralukan woman returns to her focused stillness with only a few measured breaths. Kyora leans forward, eager in her curiosity in ways she hasn’t felt since she first joined the Circle of Healers and all their knowledge was new to her. But this… this is new to _all_. New and incredible, if true. If _teachable_. 

So she watches, and she waits, and several minutes after the gurgle of the stream is broken by the splash of some nearby creature, the crystal glimmers. At first, it seems little more than the glint of the sun through the thick foliage above, but then the red… shifts. It recedes like ink in water, and the glimmer returns: soft, twinkling… and white.
    
    
    Message-ID: <8293Y4VN.09860506@JO.CRC>
    Date: Ben, 15 04 0986
    From: Kyora, Circle of Healers <184756@JO.CRC>
    Accept-Language: ba-CRC, ba
    To: Jedi High Council, Field Reports <JHC-Field@JO.CRC>
    Subject: Yavin - Extension Requested
    
    Requesting immediate extension of observational overview. Local government approval attached.
    
    Regarding previous inquiries: funding status undetermined. The closest thing to a local economy I have found is a rather elaborate inventory system. Leadership speak of a budget, however it only seems relevant off planet. My personal recommendation is to chase this up with financial bodies -- there is already too much at play I find myself unqualified to assess.
    
    Please see attached and advise.
    
    Resource List: Sure.flm, YAVINIV_09860415.holo, YAVINIV_KYBER_CRYSTAL_MODIFICATION.holo
    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (No Timeline Changes!)
> 
> #### From The Author:
> 
> I am officially EXHAUSTED.
> 
> I mean. What even is time in 2020? I think Star Wars takes the same approach, generally.
> 
> #### Helpful Notes:
> 
> (AKA: I spent way too much time figuring this out so now I’m going to share it with you)
> 
> I made up a lot of shit, but the dating system isn’t one of them! It goes “Name of the Day Abbreviation, Day Month Year”.
> 
> The e-mails are ripped from MiME headers.
> 
> JO.CRC = “Jedi Order, Coruscant” because nothing about the Holonet is ever explained. ¯_(ツ) _/¯_
> 
> Kyora’s email number is a rough approximation of how many Jedi have received email accounts in the past 1000 years or so. There is no scientific basis for this beyond Googling populations by generation. There’s like 10k Jedi pre-66 and that’s pretty much all we know about that.
> 
> Language “ba-CRC” is “Basic as spoken on Coruscant” much like “en-UK” is “English as spoken in the United Kingdom”
> 
> FILE TYPES I MADE UP BECAUSE KARK IT:
> 
> .flm = .doc(x). Word Doc. (Think Google doc for text, all you youngins)
> 
> .holo = Kind of the PDF of Star Wars. Consider this the default file type of a Galaxy Far Far Away. Assuming this to be holo recordings from which further data can be extracted in the form of text/charts/etc… because welcome to Star Wars where the points don’t matter and nothing makes sense.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Also, yes, Anakin named the file for Kyora’s approval “Sure” because he’s a shit and never liked paperwork.


	22. In Which Krayt Tells The Sith Princess Bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another rewritten history for another Dark Lord of the Sith.
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “I Am What I Am” by John Barrowman

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV, Residence of Darth Krayt

Beel quickly sidesteps the Jedi as she sweeps from Krayt’s hut, a tightly contained maelstrom in the Force. It’s impossible to miss the tension no matter the peculiar way it flows over her and dissipates into the powerful thrum surrounding them. He tries to slink back into lengthening evening shadow, but it’s no use; his feet root themselves to the ground the moment her piercing gaze lands on him.

“Why are you here?”

Are all Jedi this rude? His initial reaction bleeds through the Force between them before he can wrangle it, though the twitch of his lekku surely give him away regardless. Or they would if she understood it. He knows the answers to his question already anyway: she’s just doing her job and Jedi are really just that blunt. They’d been given an entire lecture on Jedi sensibilities the day Uncool Dad announced the visit. Beel still can’t understand why they _care_ what the Order thinks of any of this, and _certainly_ doesn’t appreciate the intrusive inquiries or the fact that, apparently, he now has to deal with this woman demanding things from him when he’s already got enough on his plate.

It’s not like he _asked_ to be assigned to their drillmaster. He hasn’t even done anything to _really_ warrant it. Well, nothing bad enough to be forced into hunting for his own meals and digging his own refuse pit, at least. Krayt might appreciate being left to his own devices in a shack in the middle of the jungle, but Beel would have at _least_ preferred running water.

A pointed, though hesitant, prod in the Force drags his attention back to the Jedi before him. She’s not-quite-frowning in that way of hers that seems strangely reminiscent of Uncool Dad. It’s more than a little disconcerting.

“Beel.” Krayt’s short bark shatters the awkward tension with all the delicacy of a fist through glass. “You done?”

His lekku twitch again, just at the tips, but he can feel the feral gaze sweep over him from the doorway, and knows he doesn’t have to vocalize the rest.

Krayt steps further out of the hut and gives a sharp nod back over his shoulder. “Get inside.”

Beel darts in without a backward glance at the Pantoran woman serenely facing the irritable Darth whose presence prowls in the Force behind him. Safe in the dimly-lit interior, the young twi’lek finally lets loose a shaky sigh and slumps back against the wall. He’s out of sight, at least, but the wide open door carries the rest of the conversation through clearly.

“— asking what brought him into your care.”

A disbelieving snort follows. “Did he tell you?”

“Not before you interrupted.”

“Not my fault you weren’t listening. Get on, now. Dinner was called an hour ago.” The reminder nearly makes Beel’s stomach growl on principle. “Kenobi’s not going to keep coddling you forever, you know.”

“I do not know what—”

“Force be with you, Healer Kyora.”

Beel barely has the time to scoot towards an old wooden table before Krayt acts upon his abrupt dismissal and strides back into the hut, a small tug in the Force closing the door behind him. The man’s feral gaze is on him again, but it’s somehow more reassuring in its intensity than the sensation of being pinned and scrutinized by the woman before. Krayt inclines his head slightly, and turns towards the low-burning hearth. Acceptance and disapproval flow in his wake, but it’s a familiar ripple Beel at least understands.

“Don’t like her much, do you?”

“… She’s rude.”

It earns him a short chuckle. “You’ve got no idea, kid.” Krayt pokes at a kettle sitting over the low flames, quickly testing the heat with the back of his hand. Apparently satisfied, he grabs a nearby piece of cloth and wraps it around the handle to pull it from the flames.

Beel frowns, brow furrowed as he picks over the words. “Why didn’t you just… kick her out?”

“How do you think that would have gone?” Krayt’s tone is almost conversational as he sets the pot on the table and drags a pair of thin, metal cups through the air with a grasping gesture.

Irritation bubbles up, but this time Beel catches it before it can slip out, stubbornly letting it simmer so he can feel out the nooks and crannies of the emotion. He _knows_ that tone, though. So he huffs a sigh and picks at the table before answering, unable to fully withhold the whine of displeasure that creeps in. “Uncle Darth, _really_?”

“Yeah. Really.” The cups land with a click and the coil of displeasure tightens along with the distinct impression of … paternal amusement if he had to put words to it.

Beel glances up without moving, holding the steady, golden gaze for a long moment before giving in to it. There’s a certain amount of threat-expectation-strength that he only ever sees from his so-called “fallen” uncle, and it reminds him of all the likely reasons for the itch that got him sent him here in the first place. He straightens and reaches for the kettle, remembering only at the last second to pick up the towel first before trying to pour the leaf-water Krayt calls tea.

“I _think_ you absolutely could have kicked her out and Cool Dad would have just told her to deal with it because you don’t owe her _anything_.”

The sense of amusement thickens. So too, Beel notes, does the sensation of being led along like a small fish catching sight of a softly glowing light in the depths. “You think so, do you?”

“It’s not like we’re Jedi,” he mutters, sitting down again once he finishes pouring the tea.

“But _we_ were. Once.”

“So?” Beel stubbornly retorts, crossing his arms and frowning with all the wrath of the young and impertinent the galaxy over. “I had an old family too, and they were just as shitty. I wouldn’t piss on them if they were thirsty.”

Krayt collects his tea with a harsh laugh, leaning his elbow on the table as he dangles the cup from its rim. “Kid, if you think the Order was anywhere near as bad as you had it, you’ve been listening to Anakin for too long. They’re naive, not malicious.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re entitled to _Yavin_. You don’t even _like_ them.”

“Fair.”

“… And at least Cool Dad can cook,” Beel bitterly follows up, wincing as he pulls the cup from his lips. “Seriously, are you sure this is a plant?”

“It’s local, and it’ll keep you healthy,” Krayt drawls with a slowly broadening grin. “Never said it came from a plant.”

Beel pauses mid sip, the wicked gleam in his uncle’s eye enough to make him rethink _precisely_ how eager he is to drink the mystery liquid, no matter how poorly he did at catching his own dinner. Sheer stubbornness pushes the mouthful down his throat, but he sets the cup down with a deliberate grimace. “That’s disgusting.”

“How would you know?”

“I don’t want to _know_ , I want something _edible_.”

Krayt gives another huff of amusement and knocks back some of the questionable liquid like a shot of something alcoholic. “Actions have consequences, kid. If you don’t follow society’s rules, you don’t get to be part of it. Don’t act like it’s the end of the world.”

Beel heaves a sigh and stares down into the murky liquid, mind wandering from its origins to the Jedi who’d nearly bowled him over when he finally made it back to the hut. The look in her eyes had pinned him to the spot so quickly — so completely — he couldn’t even form _words_. It felt like getting caught sneaking out. Like he was in a bid for freedom all over again and as closed off as she was in the Force, he couldn’t even _guess_ why she seemed so on edge. He’d never felt like that with his new dads, or even the man sitting across from him, in spite of being supposedly so far in the Dark that it calls for him by name.

“… _You’re_ here,” he eventually settles on, chagrined by the lack of strength in his words, but refusing to let it slip into the Force too. He straightens instead, bringing a lek over his shoulder with a brush of his hand. Uncle Darth understands the motion so he doesn’t need to try again with words.

Krayt settles back in the worn wood of his chair and takes another sip of his drink before answering. “And I suppose you want to know why?”

“It’s because of Cool Dad, isn’t it?” Beel blurts before he thinks, hands curling anxiously around his lek. He’s so certain he doesn’t bother correcting himself, though.

They linger a moment in silence. Then dry amusement slips back into Krayt's expression. “… Kenobi had a thing or two to say about it at the time, you know.”

Beel blinks slightly and loosens his hold while pushing curiosity-confusion into the Force between them. “No,” he bluntly admits, “I don’t.”

Krayt’s eyebrows raise. “Haven’t heard that one yet, eh?” He glances out a small window as one might check a clock and seems to draw his own conclusions. “You’re not too far off. I did know Anakin before I really met Kenobi… due in no small part to the fact that, at the time, we all thought he was dead.”

Surprise-fear-confusion flits between them. Beel’s fingers flick over the lek in his grasp, even knowing he doesn’t need to express the emotions further. He focuses, instead, on the parts that bubble up the most curiosity. “By ‘we’ … you mean the Order?”

Approval seeps into the Force with Krayt’s nod. In spite of himself, Beel feels just the bit more accomplished to have earned it. “It was in the early stages of the war. Anakin was still a padawan and Kenobi had been assigned to dig out Jabiim.” Disgust-disapproval-anger rolls out from the taut coil of emotion Krayt keeps tightly wound, and Beel swallows against the urge to flinch beneath the threat of it.

“What a waste,” Krayt continues with a dismissive wave of his hand. “One in a long list of mistakes and broken intel that was basically the whole war. Jedi hadn’t needed to be warriors for nearly a thousand years, so… we weren’t.”

“But I thought—”

“Sword forms don’t teach you how to survive a battlefield, kid. They never will.” Krayt flatly interrupts. “Jabiim… was a slaughter. Anakin barely made it out alive and it was only because he was directly ordered to _lead_ the retreat. Only way to make him go, really. Every other Jedi died on that planet, including his master — or so we thought at the time.”

“… So then you met when he was knighted?”

The Force ripples with Krayt’s wry humor at the question. “Not how the Order works, kid. Anakin got reassigned, is all. To me.”

Beel knows his eyes betray his shock all on their own, but he can’t help the swift flutter of his fingers along his lek that follows. “ _You_ were his master?”

Krayt chuckles quietly, easily dispersing the shock-awe-confusion from the flow of the Force surrounding them. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m sure that’s what the Council intended, of course. Probably thought they were helping him, too, by assigning him to someone from the same planet.” The chuckle quickly progresses to a harsh laugh. “Probably thought they were doing _me_ a favor, too. They have a history of thinking they always know the best way to fix problems… _people_ , usually.”

“Wasn’t Uncool Dad _on_ the council, though?”

“And he _still_ thinks he can fix everything.” Krayt’s lips quirk up with his words, but it’s somehow difficult to tell if they’re meant to be teasing or not.

Beel instinctively decides to skirt the topic and tries to bring them back to his original observation. “You… befriended each other, then? After Jabiim?” he summarizes.

“… We came to an understanding, yeah,” Krayt allows, dropping the topic with surprising ease.

“… An understanding,” Beel echoes slowly as he works through the part he knows the man purposely left unsaid.

Krayt has a habit of using every conversation as a way of forcing them to come to their own conclusions rather than simply supplying answers and, while it was irritating earlier, now Beel finds he _wants_ to tease apart the nuances a little more. Wants to see if he _does_ understand his strange second family as much as thinks he does. So he tilts his head and eases the tension in his hands along the length of his lek, gazing thoughtfully about the main room as he considers the Darth’s words.

“… If that’s all… then by the time you came to Yavin, you hadn’t seen _either_ of them in a long time,” he slowly begins, talking through the parts he already knows. “So they were already married… and… and it must have been _after_ you Fell.”

“Correct.”

Bolstered by his success, Beel skips over the relationship details and digs, instead, for the missing pieces in his understanding of events. The Dads and their relationship are such a well-worn topic of speculation and idle chatter that he’s not afraid to miss out on something interesting now. Uncle _Darth_ on the other hand… He has the basic outline: Krayt had also been part of the Jedi Order, fought in the war, seemed to be friends with Cool Dad, but there were so many things left unsaid that finally having the opportunity to pursue it all made him _itch_ with so many questions that he no longer cared about the endless drills, the bland food, or the suspicious tea.

“The vod say you came later. After the treaty,” he says. “So it must have happened some time when they were off planet —” A hand on his lek tightens sharply in realization.

“Figured it out, hm?”

“They found you on a _Sith Hunt_?” Beel’s astonishment washes through the Force. “But, those are for… criminals?”

“Something like that.”

“ _Uncle Darth_ —”

“Do you want to _know_ , or do you want to _keep guessing_?”

Beel’s mouth snaps shut immediately.

Krayt smirks. “Like you said, I didn’t see either for several years and by the time I _did_ they were so obviously married, it was pretty easy to tell they weren’t Jedi anymore, even if you happened to spend the last couple of years buried under Sith rocks…”

### 17 BBY, 7th Month: Lucazec

The amount of Sith that came out of the woodwork post-war was honestly astounding.

Dark Jedi. Fallen Jedi. Darksiders. Acolytes. Apprentices. It was a little ridiculous the amount of names everyone came up with for them. Between the Jedi Order denying the entire _existence_ of Sith until the whole galaxy was embroiled in the obvious result of their schemes, and Dooku irritably decrying every ‘so-called Sith’ that popped up on the radar post-Treaty, it felt like they spent half their time trying to define _which kind_ of saber-wielding sadist they were tracking down, rather than actually _dealing with them_.

It’s not as though any of the _victims_ particularly cared which obscure sect of a Force cult is responsible for the person barreling through newly Jedi-free space. They just wanted the situation handled. Anakin is inclined to agree with them.

“Mind your thoughts, Anakin—”

“I’m _fine_ , Master.”

Obi-Wan makes a sort of disbelieving hum in the back of his throat, but continues on behind him. He can all but feel the way his old master frowns after him, only allowing a dry sort of mild concern.

“You’re projecting rather loudly, Dear One.”

Anakin rolls his eyes and continues his stalk through the hulking remnants of some ship piloted by whichever ancient peoples crashed into the planet however long ago, the blue light of his saber and a low humming tension in the Force his only guides. “It’s _always_ loud to you.”

There’s a shift in the bond somewhat like someone resettling furniture, and Obi-Wan says, “You are rather… difficult to ignore at the best of times, however that is not my _point_.”

“Yeah, yeah, I _know_.”

“Do you?”

Anakin stops short and turns with an irritated huff. “We’ve been at this for _three days_ , Master. People died _after we got here_.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan begins on a sigh. As predicted, Anakin can’t even see his expression in the gloom. “We’ve been through this—”

“If we spent less time talking about _nonsense_ —”

“As I’ve said before: we need to know what we’re _dealing with_ —”

“Who. Cares?” Anakin snaps, only vaguely aware of the pebbles and small debris drifting up from the ground in his anger. “They skipped through half the sector already, leaving us two steps behind for over a week and when we _finally_ manage to catch up all _you_ wanted to do was figure out _what kind of crazy_ they are.”

Irritation-insult zips through the bond and is promptly smothered with an overwhelming sense of caution.

“That is not. true.” Obi-Wan’s words are clipped and precise and although Anakin can _feel_ him struggling to maintain serenity, the tone reminds him too much of admonishment to slow down for the argument.

He spins forward again, the cool blue of his saber raised against the dark. “Well, you can dick over the details if you want; _I’m_ going to actually _do something_.”

“Potentially running headlong into a _Sith trap_ in the process — _Anakin_!” Obi-Wan’s voice is closer than he expects, the hand on his shoulder equally so. He jerks beneath the hold, but stops shy of retaliation. Obi-Wan’s grip tightens. “I know you are _angry_ , Dear One, believe me it is… difficult not to reflect it. That is _why_ —”

“I ‘need to be mindful of my emotions’,” Anakin recites like the dutiful padawan he hasn’t been for years, attempting to shrug off the hand on his shoulder so they can proceed.

“Well, _yes_ … but that wasn’t—”

“It’s _fine_ , Master. _I’m_ fine. I can handle this. Now let’s _go_.”

Obi-Wan’s presence dims somewhat within the bond, but he does — finally — remove his hand and settle back a safe distance. Anakin has never been a fan of Obi-Wan’s penchant for withdrawing from the bond in general, let alone in hostile territory, but at the moment it means renewed freedom so he pushes forward again. They have bigger fish to fry than Obi-Wan’s habitual need to review the deluge of emotion-thought that passes between them.

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV… Still At The Beginning of the Story

“Wait, what did you _do_?”

Krayt arches a single eyebrow.

Beel wraps his hands more tightly around his mug, knowing his uncle can easily sense his internal quailing at the sight of the Darth’s displeasure, but stubbornly holding his gaze all the same. For a moment, nothing moves, even in the Force. The sheer stillness is unnerving. “Well you had to do _something_ — if Cool Dad was that upset,” he blurts out moments later.

“You think they’d let me stay here if I’d gone on a bender like that?”

It’s a fair point, if damnably confusing, and makes Beel stutter through his defense. “But you _said_ —”

“That they were tracking reports of a renegade Sith,” Krayt interrupts on a huff, gesturing with his cup in an open-armed movement. “I never said that was _me_.”

A lek twitches again before Beel can settle himself. The Force sets to motion again, carrying a strange tumult of fear-relief-curiosity between them. Neither shocked nor wholly mollified, he mutters a bewildered, “Then why were _you_ there?”

“Why do you think?” his instructor predictably parries.

Beel fights back another sigh of frustration for Krayt’s obtuse methods and frowns his way through the answer required to get any further in the story. “… You…” Based more on the man he knows now than the story so far, he says, “… were _also_ tracking the Sith?”

“Better.”

The flush of success is heady, and leads him thoughtlessly into follow-up questions. “But if that’s the case… doesn’t that mean all that stuff on Korriban already happened? Weren’t you _also_ Sith?”

“Kid, what gave you the impression Sith _get along_?” It’s said with such a measure of disappointment that Beel can’t help sinking back in his chair. Still, Krayt continues. “And anyway, I wasn’t tracking the asshole out of the goodness of my heart. Bastard jumped me when I finally crawled out of that tomb. I barely managed to scramble on to the ship after him.”

“But… how could you…?”

“How could I what?”

“… _Lose_?”

Beel knows it’s a childish question before it slips out, but… he just can’t help it. All of his instructors have an awe-inspiring amount of skill and ability in the Force underlaid in every thing they do. In many ways, Krayt’s mere presence — coiled tight like a serpent ready to strike — has always felt the most powerful of them all. Well, aside from Cool Dad, but most of the time it’s too much trouble to separate him from the rest of the Force enough to notice.

The usual tension of Krayt’s presence eases with a low huff. Surprisingly, Beel can’t sense any disappointment _or_ irritation from his all-too-naive inquiry. “Doesn’t matter how powerful you are, kid.” Krayt sets his cup down then, and pushes back from the table with a stretch. “You can _always_ lose. Doesn’t matter why. I was starving, dehydrated, hallucinating, and had massively over-exerted myself in the Force, but that doesn’t matter. He could have just been stronger. Being _resourceful_ is what got me through.”

In the silence that follows, Beel tucks his knees up on to the chair rather than give voice to the thoughts it’s plain as day Krayt knows he’s having. It’s disconcerting just _considering_ the possibility.

Surprisingly, his uncle gives in before him, sighing out a short, expectant, “Well? Say it.”

Beel’s gaze flicks up from his cup and back down again, but even knowing how silly the fear is doesn’t keep the discomfort at bay. Even so, Uncle Darth is expecting an answer, so he swallows the discomfort and quietly asks, “… Is there really someone stronger than Cool Dad?”

Krayt snorts derisively. It’s surprising enough to make Beel look up, catching the crossed-armed discomfort and furrowed brow that accompanies the Darth’s answer. “Anakin’s his own worst enemy. Always has been. We don’t need to look for outside threats _too_.” He shakes his head and reaches for the rest of his drink once more. “Best let Kenobi handle it, for now.”

### 17 BBY, 7th Month: Lucazec Part II: Electric Boogaloo

“Anakin!”

Light sizzles, snaps, and snarls in a crackle of red and blue inches from his face, and he flicks his eyes up to catch a glimpse of the now familiar sight of yellow-red rage glaring out at him. Hatred and disgust rolls off the Sith, beating uselessly against his shields. Anakin grins against the impotent fury sputtering and spilling into the Force around them and steps into his opponent’s space. It’s a short, swift movement to break the guard, and he’s half way through the smooth spinning follow-up when the Force comes screaming in from his right and shoves his opponent clear across the room.

Alarm-fear-thREAT spins him away from the Sith and back to the ever-present signature tangled with his own just in time to see the familiar blue of Obi-Wan’s saber catch the edge of something — green? Obi-Wan’s own alarm-confusion skitters between them, but he sinks into his new position with battle-born ease, finishing the movement with a rotation designed to push the newcomer back.

_What—?_

Obi-Wan glances at him once, sending concern-confusion through the bond as he turns more directly to their second opponent and falls into the opening stance of Soresu. Movement from his left turns Anakin back towards his own opponent: a creature hidden in the folds of black clothing so thoroughly the only thing Anakin can call it is ‘Sith’. The — man? Woman? Beast? — snarls something in a language he’s _also_ fairly sure is Sith, and launches itself back at him, red saber lit and screaming for blood.

“Don’t,” he grunts, spinning to match Obi-Wan’s defensive footwork and adjusting his blocks to match.

“I’m sure I can’t _possibly_ —”

The Sith rushes in and Anakin shoves Obi-Wan aside by the shoulder. Or rather, Obi-Wan _lets him_ , the decision shared between them in a split second. Anakin braces momentarily against the solid strength behind him and swiftly directs a hard shove of the Force into his current attacker.

“You don’t have to say it.”

Obi-Wan makes a short gesture and Anakin answers with a ruder one before launching after his prey once more. The aggression is clearly not anticipated, judging by the way the Sith scrambles to block his renewed attacks. Good. They may have full confidence in each other, but that doesn’t mean he’s exactly _comfortable_ with the fact that they never once heard of — or sensed — a second Sith.

Best to end this quickly.

Djem So’s heavy swings and aggressive counters flow easily through the tension of battle. Before, there was time. He’d made a point to measure the Sith’s tactics first: appraising martial strength through something that felt more like sparring than a potentially lethal match. Something almost enjoyable in its predictability and the familiarity of his master’s snarky presence lending barbs and inquiry to the fight. He’d appreciated the lifted mood of Obi-Wan’s clear approval in his restraint.

That, unfortunately, has passed and if he takes his irritation out on a Sith whose antics have harmed so many? Well, so much the better. Really, he thinks as his saber crashes down, roughly shoving the Sith back and scrambling for balance, there is no better outlet for a bubbling anger the cloying Dark has only sunk more deeply into his veins since they arrived.

Once he focuses on victory, it’s over quickly.

The Sith jerks back with a shriek of pain as Anakin’s blade finds its wrist, cleanly severing the hand — sword and all — from the creature in the same moment he kicks his opponent into the far wall with the perhaps slightly overeager backing of the Force.

The blade vanishes and a voice like thunder reverberates from the other end of the room.

“Give. It. Back!”

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV… Once More

“Couldn’t you have just … _asked_?”

Krayt makes a disgruntled noise somewhere in the back of his throat, but the effect of his displeasure is lessening the further into the story they get. “What?”

“I just… why attack them?” Beel insists, brow furrowed as he searches for an answer between them. “You knew who they were, didn’t you?”

“I knew they were Jedi.”

“But even if they looked different, surely their signatures—”

“Kid,” Krayt interrupts before he can get dragged more thoroughly off topic. “I didn’t attack _them_.” He waits long enough for Beel’s skeptical frown to refocus on him before continuing. “Not at first, anyway.”

Beel is, in spite of all his insistent interruptions, apparently listening well enough to understand the correction. It’s a relief, if a small one, when he sighs down into his drink. The brat still hasn’t finished the tea, and it seems increasingly likely that he’s just going to ignore the substance in favor of something far more interesting. Well. It’ll be his own fault when he wakes uncomfortably hungry in the morning.

“I know you said you attacked the other Sith, but I just… why attack _at all_? It was just one Sith — not even a named one — they were obviously going to win?”

Krayt lets his disappointment drift into the Force more than his amusement. It’s best to nip this sort of hero worship in the bud. “What did I _just_ tell you?”

“Just because _anyone_ can lose doesn’t mean it was _likely,_ ” Beel launches back immediately. Krayt’s starting to understand why Kenobi sent him here in the first place and it has far less to do with making up for infractions than he previously assumed. “And anyway, you said Cool Dad beat him pretty cleanly once you joined in. Obviously, they knew you were the bigger threat.” Force help him, he kind of _likes_ the brat.

“Right,” he prompts over the rim of his cup, curious in spite of himself about where Beel’s mind is going with his current line of questioning.

“So why didn’t they switch opponents, then? And why did you keep fighting? And why attack them _after_ Cool Dad beat the other Sith?” Beel is frowning something furious by the end, confusion and consternation warring for dominance in the Force between them.

Krayt lets them simmer as he sips his tea, and waits.

“Did you… _keep them_ from switching? That was the reason you kept attacking?” Beel finally attempts, fingers rapping against the side of his mug like they had his lek before and Krayt sighs.

It’s not as though Beel has enough information to go on, so it’s an acceptable guess, at least.

“They didn’t swap because they didn’t need to, kid,” he bluntly summarizes.

Beel blinks at him in confusion. “But—”

“Don’t over complicate it.”

The sheer amount of bafflement radiating from the Twi’lek is a pleasant stroke to his ego, if an unnecessary and ultimately incorrect one.

“I was the greater threat, yes, and they both knew it, which is why they immediately eliminated their original opponent first. You’ve seen Anakin fight. He’d already engaged the other guy and he’s better suited to that sort of fight regardless. _More importantly,_ ” he stresses, straightening up to hold Beel’s attention so he can really emphasize his point, “Kenobi was absolutely capable of holding me off more or less indefinitely.”

### 17 BBY, 7th Month: Lucazec, The Good Stuff

“I think you upset him, Master.”

“ _I_ up—” Obi-Wan sweeps under an unhinged swing of green light, twisting around midstep to keep his opponent in view, and gives a huff for his lost commentary. “That is _your_ speciality, Dear One,” he says instead.

Anakin gives him a dry expression in spite of the flick of heat that flutters through the bond. It would be more attractive if he wasn’t carefully unbending the frozen digits of a severed hand from the hilt of a lightsaber at the same time.

Obi-Wan dances back to avoid the downward swing of their newest opponent, battling the urge to frown his way through the movement. The blade never hits the ground, but the sound of rent metal slices through the darkness anyway, and he has to once again adjust his movements to anticipate unseen rubble that ricochets up from the impact. He’d noticed the sheer strength behind the swing from the moment their blades crossed, and somehow, several minutes into their duel it only seems to have _increased_.

Behind him, Anakin chatters about the state of their unconscious Sith — primarily how long he anticipates the shock lasting — but the itch of discomfort spans the bond between them. Something just… doesn’t feel _right_. Their opponent hasn’t said a word since his last demand, bellowed through a full-face mask that’s kept Anakin on edge since the moment there was enough light to see much of it. The strange goggles hint at something Obi-Wan can’t quite remember and the surface of it keeps Anakin’s attention riveted to the shadows occasionally broken by green and blue light that should not be so at odds.

“There’s no need to be so reticent, my friend,” Obi-Wan attempts once more, stepping back with the downswing of his blade as he shifts to a more casual walking guard. He can feel the sharpening of Anakin’s attention with the opening, but he keeps the point of his saber turned away as he walks the circle with his nameless opponent. “I’m sure we could find some interesting topics!” he continues, keeping himself open and his tone light since the conversation appears to have stopped the ferocity and frequency of attacks. “I for one, would love to hear the story behind that lightsaber.”

The green blade swings down to the side, mimicking Obi-Wan’s stance, and the room falls to silence.

In the gloom, there’s barely enough light spilled from the two lightsabers still lit to see the basic shape of their surroundings: curved metal walls of a crashed ship, rock and debris scattered across a half earthen floor, and the blue profile of a Jedi Master, slightly mussed, still and awaiting his opponent’s next move. The Force coils around its children, at once flowing and stagnant. Warning trembles in the Light. Something unknown coils tighter in the Dark.

A red blade of light hisses to life opposite the green, and the Sith brings both around in a crossed guard before him.

“… Anakin.”

Obi-Wan takes half a step back, spinning his saber around with a flick of his wrist and raises his free hand towards his husband in anticipation of a second hilt. The last thing he anticipates is _hesitation_ , but the shock radiating through their bond is what ultimately splits his attention. A flurry of images spins a maelstrom of memory: moments in time, ground to dust and thrown to the wind. There are snippets of dunes, of suns, of anguish, and screams, and pain, and deep, searing guilt.

He glances aside — just for a second — and his opponent moves.

It’s lightning quick, the way he barrels forward, and would have caught him completely off guard if not for the veritable scream of warning that blares out in the Force. Obi-Wan can’t tell if it’s Anakin or the Force itself, and doesn’t bother trying to figure it out when catching the attack only gives him something new to deal with. So he pushes back, throwing his weight into the movement until he can force his opponent out of form — but the stranger recovers with remarkable speed, flipping his grip on his second saber and slicing horizontally with the red blade even as he’s forced to give way.

Obi-Wan doubles back immediately, spinning his lightsaber around through the full Soresu guard in anticipation of the strike that follows. Jar Kai is not an easy form to counter with one blade, but if there is a style best suited to do so, it’s certainly Soresu. Unfortunately, his attacker seems to understand the same within only a few strikes, and switches swiftly into a style more reminiscent of the careful ripostes and repositions of Makashi.

Which is… _not_ best suited for him alone.

“Anak-”

“ _Hett?!_ ”

Anakin’s incredulous shout is the first spoken word that seems to have _any_ affect on their opponent. Obi-Wan takes advantage of the sudden pause to make space and recenter his racing thoughts. There’s already enough turmoil from Anakin’s end of the bond—if he doesn’t pull them from the whirlpool, it’s quite apparent the suffocating press of the Dark will crush them all.

“ _Anakin_ —”

Something crackles, and Obi-Wan snaps his blade up just in time to catch the jagged light with his saber. His eyes narrow instinctively against the glare, the rest of his words flushed into the bond as his attention is taken entirely by his attempt not to be fried on the spot.

“Hett! What are you—?”

“It’s fairly apparent what he’s _doing_ ,” Obi-Wan grits out the moment the lightning falls away, swinging his blade around instantly to reform his guard.

“But it doesn’t — this doesn’t _make sense_ —”

“Perhaps—” Two blocks hard enough to make his arms shake. “— you should _ask_?” Spin right, parry — and twist right back around to catch the other blade. He raises a hand to summon a Force push, barely managing enough strength to send his opponent stumbling back a step.

“ _Hett_!”

“Anakin, are you _quite_ sure—”

“It’s him.” Anakin’s voice is grim as he — _finally_ — weaves into Obi-Wan’s footwork to join him in the battle, catching their opponent’s red blade as Obi-Wan parries the green. “I thought something seemed familiar,” he explains as they part, splitting the battle to each side of their attacker.

“Familiar?” Obi-Wan echoes, trying to catch their opponent’s attention as he does his own breath.

A grim, knowing smirk shows on Anakin’s face as the light moves with the Sith’s sudden charge. “His mask,” Anakin announces, somewhat breathlessly catching and returning each flurry of strikes in kind. “And this version of Jar Kai. It has to be him. _Hett,_ what—?”

The man growls something from behind the face mask, lunging forward again, just barely missing something vital with his saber, but catching Anakin off balance and managing to tug him in closer with an unexpected curl of the Force. Obi-Wan reacts before he thinks, shoving his full strength behind a desperate Force shove, hurled from both hands straight into their opponent’s side.

“I don’t think he’s _listening_ —”

The Sith spins with uncanny speed, snapping a thick cord of nothing around Obi-Wan’s throat in the split second it takes him to recover his balance.

“Hett!”

Obi-Wan can barely hear Anakin over the pounding thud of his own pulse.

“ _Obi-Wan!_ ”

Instinctively, he brings a hand up to claw at the grip that isn’t really there, trying to focus, to breathe, to coax the Force down, and away from his throat even as he’s lifted into the air.

“Hett! This isn’t _you_!”

There’s a push of _something_ , but Obi-Wan can’t even tell where it’s from or where it’s going. The pressure on his throat increases and he wheezes, lungs straining for lost air, adrenaline spiraling dizziness that much quicker and it’s all he can do to keep the panic down, to focus on the phantom grip and prying it bit by bit—

“LISTEN TO ME!”

There’s a brilliant light, dizzying spots of darkness, a torrent of Force, and a sudden, hard slam into the ground.

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV - Intermission

“You’re lying.”

Krayt stops mid-sentence and glares.

Beel, the stubborn brat, glares right back.

“… What _now_?” He drops the front legs of his chair back to the floor with a loud clack, gratified to see it spook the kid into remembering exactly who he just accused of lying _in the middle of the best part of the story_.

Force’s _sake_.

“I mean—” Beel pauses to clear his throat, his nervousness bleeding out into the Force, but quickly buffeted by certainty and stubborn belief. “You don’t _have_ to gloss over it, Uncle Darth.”

“… _What_?” Krayt manages, not following in the least and not bothering to hide his irritation.

He is met — rather bizarrely — with a pointed, knowing expression from the young Twi’lek. “You don’t really expect me to believe you were just… _lost in the Dark_ ,” he pauses significantly and slowly raises his brow in emphasis.

Krayt frowns. “I thought we already covered this,” he mutters, leaning forward on the table as if physical proximity will somehow reveal what strange logic is at work to him. “Figured it was pretty obvious I lost that encounter. That’s _why_.”

Hesitation joins the strained stretch of emotion crossing the table, but shortly after Beel seems to steel himself with skepticism once more. “You really expect me to believe that you actually managed to _Force choke_ Uncool Dad and Cool Dad didn’t stop you?”

“… Kid. I was just _getting to that part_. Anakin pretty much _exploded_ — threw me against a wall so hard it knocked me clean out — _what_?”

“I’ve _been_ in the ruins with the dads,” Beel says meaningfully.

Perfectly content to let the silence and his own displeased bafflement speak for him, Krayt waits for an _actual_ explanation. The longer both rest between them, the more uncertain the twi’lek boy looks, his meaningful expression rapidly falling to nervous uncertainty in only a couple of moments. Eventually, he breaks, shifting his gaze to his knees once more.

“ 'm not a youngling,” he mutters at his pants, “it’s pretty obvious what happens when one of them, you know… gets _lost in the Dark_ …”

It’s the unwieldy embarrassment suffusing the Force that finally pulls the pieces together.

Ugh. He could kill those two _idiots_.

“ _No_.” It’s probably the spike of bloodlust more than his words that brings Beel’s gaze sharply up to his own again. “Just. No.”

“It’s… really I’m not the only one who figured it out. We—”

“Kid. I’m not fucking your dads,” Krayt flatly states with all the disbelieving growl of someone forced to actually utter the words. “Sith Hells,” he mutters into the stunned silence that follows, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“… We can’t _all_ be wrong—”

“Force help me, do you listen to _any_ of us?” Exasperation more than aggression colors his voice and in the moment Krayt doesn’t care enough to correct it. He straightens again, grabbing the cooled pot from the middle of the table just to have something to do with his hands and swishes the contents. “I’m only saying this once, so listen up.”

Beel sits up as much as he can while hiding behind his knees, brown eyes wide and locked on him.

“ _Sleeping with someone_ is _not_ some kind of standard procedure for smacking sense into someone who has been Lost to the Dark.” Revenge scenarios sprinkle through his thoughts as he talks. The best way to set things up for maximum carnage. How many children to include. How many of their parents. Both Anakin _and_ Obi-Wan will need to be present, of course; that much he’s already decided on.

Especially given how sincere Beel’s doubtful look rings in the Force.

“The Dark Side isn’t _spice_ , kid. It’s unrestrained emotion and instinct. It. will. _un. make. you._ ” The pot’s handle bends with the force of his grip and he has to visibly collect himself in order to set it down again. “Mastering the Dark is like taming a wild animal: you might be able to bring it to heel, have it do what you want — even make it respond to you more than anyone else… but in the end, it’s still wild. If you let up, if you weaken at all, it will overwhelm you.”

The crack of a log beneath the fire behind him breaks the silence long before Beel gets any control over the embarrassed flush purpling his skin. Somewhere in the depths of his mortification, the stubborn core of a curious Force-sensitive manages to squeak a quiet, “… So you really just…”

“… Got some sense knocked into me,” Krayt flatly summarizes. “Yeah.”

There’s another awkward pause, but shorter this time, as if Beel is actively trying to substitute the current conversation for the previous. “I just thought — you haven’t really… the whole time you’ve been here you’re… usually… you know?” He lifts his head in a kind of nod across the table.

This, at least, Krayt somewhat expected of the conversation. “You’re not wrong, kid,” he says on an aggravated sigh. “That is _my own_ effort, though. No one else’s. I’m not out here just because I like the life, you know. The Dark Side doesn’t exactly make for a friendly neighbor.”

The awkward tension of realized embarrassment and a thwarted story spills between them in the silence that follows. Only the nervous tap of Beel’s fingers against his cup keeps the silence from completion. It only takes a couple rounds of the obnoxious drumming to push Krayt away from the table with a dismissive gesture.

“Get to bed, kid. We’ve got an early morning.”

### 17 BBY, 7th Month: Lucazec, A Campfire and The Aftermath

“… You’re sure you haven’t Fallen?” Hett mutters in disbelief as the familiar heft of his saber lands in his hand once more. He can’t help feeling as though a missing piece of himself has been returned.

“Pretty sure, yeah,” Anakin answers with an amused smirk. “Better?”

“… Mostly,” he murmurs, reaching for the crystal in the Force and managing not to flinch when its shrieking lances through his mind once more. When Anakin makes no move to leave, brow furrowed in concern over his reply, Hett sighs and leans back against the hull of the ship behind him. “The crystal,” he clarifies.

Realization washes over Anakin’s expression, but it’s Obi-Wan, tending the fire a few feet away, who says, “You weren’t the one who bled it?”

Hett shakes his head. “Not that she didn’t keep pushing, of course,” he answers by way of explanation, gesturing with his newly returned hilt to the holocron laying atop the small pile of his belongs on the other side of the fire.

“Don’t blame you for going a little nuts having to listen to that all day,” Anakin dryly comments, turning to make his way back to his master.

“I am eternally in your debt for the mute function alone,” Hett says without a scrap of sarcasm to his name.

They lapse into silence once more. It’s almost companionable — if one ignores the sedated pile of Sith shackled to a landing strut and the open affection in the the careful way Anakin retraces the fading bruises on Obi-Wan’s throat. That. Is definitely _not_ companionable. Force choked or not.

He may have been told, but it’s still… _strange_ to witness.

“Hett?” It’s always Kenobi.

A’Sharad tilts his head in acknowledgement of the inquiry, resting an arm on his knee so he can dangle the comforting weight of his returned lightsaber from his fingers. “You are… very close.”

They don’t even have the grace to share a look between them.

Anakin just says, “Uh, Married?” as if he can’t understand why it’s being brought up while his husband exhales quietly and shakes his head.

“… So you mentioned,” Hett murmurs.

Another moment passes in silence before Obi-Wan apparently elects himself mediator once more. “I understand it can seem… strange to Jedi,” he delicately begins.

“— haven’t been a Jedi for a while, Kenobi.”

A measured inhale is accompanied by a placid smile. Hett wonders how many people mistake it for pleasant. “Well, in our experience even _former_ Jedi can be… uncomfortable —”

“You told him?”

Anakin blinks owlishly, which is, in a way, its own answer. Then Obi-Wan tenses where he sits. _Then_ Anakin’s expression slowly morphs to contrite confirmation. It’s fascinating to watch in real time now that he’s not actively attempting to murder either of them in a blind rage. Fascinating and little humbling to better understand how out of his depth he truly had been in their previous match.

“Good.”

This time, Anakin’s expression slips wry as Obi-Wan brings a hand to his beard. He’s hardly spent any time at all around the former Councilor, but A’Sharad is fairly certain he’s starting to understand his mannerisms at least.

“I didn’t really have a choice,” Anakin explains, catching Hett’s gaze over the fire with a strangely self-effacing shrug.

“That is not _entirely_ true,” Obi-Wan murmurs quietly from his side.

“Well, it’s _more_ true than saying I talked about it on purpose.” The baffling back and forth ends with a shake of Anakin’s head and a redirection back to Hett. “It’s because of the bond,” he says, blunt in the way a hot iron is to an open wound. “It’s… not like we got to discuss it so much as... ah, he experienced it?”

Hett’s eyebrows raise sharply, no attempt made to hide his surprise. “I’m… impressed,” he says into the simmering tension that never quite left with the end of their conflict. It’s not what they expected him to say — or rather, it’s obvious Obi-Wan didn’t anticipate that response, given his own more placid expression of surprise.

“ _Impressed_?” the former councilor echoes with a sort of neutrality Hett almost envies. It’s been far too long since he’s been able to maintain that level of serene control of his own emotional state, and the memories he’s no doubt brought up are unlikely to be pleasant.

“That you didn’t Fall,” he explains with a nod to include Anakin as well. “At the time, I assumed it was your strength of will that kept you from completely succumbing. It was a similar … stubbornness—” His lips twitch into a rusty expression of mirth at his own wording as much as the wry agreement in Anakin’s expression. “— that kept you going after Jabiim. But I didn’t know the rest of your Lineage that well,” he concludes with a glance at Obi-Wan. “Clearly, I should have placed more weight in your instruction.”

Obi-Wan only shakes his head mildly and finally drops his hand from his beard with a quiet sigh. “If his instruction had been _adequate_ —”

“ _Master_.”

“It _is_ true, Anakin,” Kenobi insists in those same, even-tempered tones he’s held since the moment Hett came around. His every action is dictated by decades of Jedi tradition so completely, A’Sharad is entirely certain he wouldn’t have known the man ever left the Order if not for Anakin’s presence. “I did you a disservice both in dismissing your visions at the time and in not adjusting the instruction _I_ received to better suit the circumstances of your own apprenticeship.”

Hett’s disbelieving tsk is somehow loud enough to drag them out of whatever tangle of emotion is clearly passing between them. A win, if only for his own sanity in the moment. “The Dark Side doesn’t let go unless _forced_.” A bit of a growl creeps in at the end of his statement, but neither seem particularly bothered by the reminder of his own recent failings in that regard. “You made it out the other side. That’s the important part.”

“At the cost of several lives,” Kenobi curtly reminds them all.

“Several lives spent taking other lives,” Hett replies offhandedly, rather enjoying the affront he’s managed to drag out of the otherwise unflappable master. He grins, flashing his teeth like fangs in the first moment since waking that he’s been genuinely glad for the removal of his mask. “You seem to think the tragedy here is the loss of a tribe. It’s not.”

“Hett—”

“Tch. Did I ever tell you to mourn them, Anakin?” A’Sharad presses, shifting his attention deliberately to the man whose dark confession to him years ago had brought him the realization of the weight of his own past — had finally given him a reason to discard it. “I was a Jedi, true, but before that I was Tusken. My father may have tried to raise a padawan, but I still knew the tribe. I still hunted with them. We all did. Do you really think the other clans mourned their loss? Do you think they appreciated how the careless raiding of a few moisture farms created greater opposition to their own plans?”

“That is irrelevant—”

“Don’t project. If you had stayed, any one of that extended clan who found you, who saw what you did, would have _respected your strength_ ,” Hett finishes with a shrug for Obi-Wan’s interruption. “Tusken morals are messy. That’s not the point.”

He turns his gaze back to Anakin directly.

“The point is you couldn’t reconcile the rage, and the anguish. It overwhelmed you and never truly left. _I_ couldn’t fix it. At the time, it felt like something you would have to work out on your own… but it seems I was wrong.” A’Sharad flicks the hilt of his newly returned saber into the air, directing the Force to cradle its decent with an absent gesture. “I kept my word, Anakin Skywalker, and I will continue to keep it, but in the end my advice could have cost you far more than any personal triumph is worth. I am fortunate you ultimately ignored it. We all are.”

* * *

Hett finds himself unsurprised by Kenobi’s return from the small, shared tent at the edge of their encampment no more than a few minutes after the moments it likely took for Anakin to completely pass out. Really, he was more surprised the man stayed functional for so long after the exhausting depths to which he plumbed the Force to drag him from the Dark and sloppily mend the damage Hett himself caused. Not for the first time in his life, A’Sharad contemplates the sheer, terrifying strength of Anakin Skywalker and finds himself grateful all over again for Obi-Wan’s return.

Out loud he says, “A touching show of trust, Kenobi.”

But whatever feathers he’d ruffled in their previous conversation have settled once more and Obi-Wan simply sits himself beside the fire once more. “Trust is separate of acceptable risk,” he replies.

The statement drags a short, dry chuckle from the fallen Jedi. “Wise words.”

Hett shifts his gaze upward as they lapse into silence, tracing the stars as Kenobi stokes the fire. For all his commentary to the contrary, it’s surprisingly amiable. He wonders, perhaps, if it’s just been that long since he last felt the presence of a fellow master. Not that he should really count anymore.

A tired sigh pulls his attention back down just as Kenobi says, “… It may be Anakin’s trust, A’Sharad, but I _will_ honor it.”

“So willing to put so many of your own people at such obvious risk,” Hett chuckles, allowing both amusement and faint surprise to pass openly into the Force. “Not so different from the Sith after all.”

Obi-Wan returns his amusement with a flat expression. “I have _dealt_ with Sith, Hett.”

“Tch, Tyranus _barely_ counts.”

“Really?” Kenobi’s tone is far too light for the topic at hand. “He seems to be the most successful of the lot.” His words are conversational when they should be adversarial. Hett would call it Jedi-like, but he knows better. Perhaps it’s just Obi-Wan.

He’d think more highly of the man if the words themselves were worthwhile.

“That just means he’s the most _visible_ ,” A’Sharad counters with a wave of his hand. “You talked sense into him is all. I seem to recall _Anakin_ taking the lead when it came to martial encounters with him.”

Kenobi remains, somewhat predictably now that Hett has spent more than a few minutes in his presence, unruffled by the implied insult. “It’s true I have not been particularly successful in dueling Dooku one on one,” he dismissively agrees, “but that does not make me incapable. Moreover, I am not the only protecting Yavin.”

“ _Oh_?” Hett’s not entirely sure why he pushes the point, but follows the urge regardless. “And suppose I find something in that plethora of Sith ruins—”

“Mostly inert,” Kenobi interrupts with an expression that could almost be called amused.

“All it takes is _one_.”

“Then Anakin will handle it.”

The readiness of the reply actually catches A’Sharad off guard. He tilts his head in curiosity, taking the moment to re-assess the man before him. “You have a lot of faith in him.”

“I do.”

“… Yet you remain here, guarding him.”

Kenobi’s solemnity breaks with a soft laugh and his presence in the Force shifts strangely warm and open. “Do you think he doesn’t _know_ I’m out here?” Hett’s baffled silence is apparently enough of an answer, as Obi-Wan shakes his head and stands shortly thereafter. “Come to Yavin, A’Sharad: the invitation is from both of us. I thought, perhaps, that was unclear.”

Obi-Wan bows politely — one master to another — and returns to his tent, leaving Hett alone with his thoughts, the fire, and the unconscious cultist that put him in this bizarre situation to begin with.

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV - The Morning After

“The longer you languish here—”

“What was all that about forgotten knowledge and ancient temples?” Krayt doesn’t bother looking up from his current task as he answers, keeping his focus on the small pile of electrical components and sheathing before him.

The ghostly image of a pale woman swathed in bandages and elaborate tattoos flows along the ceiling, a seething mass of unfulfilled desires twisted by ancient ritual and spewed forth from a softly glowing holocron nestled innocuously on a small shelf at the back of the room. She dips down low, the long talons of her tails picking over the items with open disdain.

“Such inferior components,” she sneers. “Perhaps if you actually sought out the secrets of this moon, you would understand.”

Krayt grunts disinterestedly and separates a few of the more finicky components apart from the rest.

“Thousands of years gone by and what have you accomplished?”

“Well, we managed to get rid of the power pack.”

XoXaan scoffs, floating over and through the components once more, reveling in the corrosion that follows her touch. “So much emphasis on the craft of a physical weapon was meaningless from the start. True strength lies in the Force. Even the naïveté of the Order in my time pales in comparison to the pathetic shadow that relies on such things now. We who abandoned the Light grew so much more in strength than can be distilled in such trinkets.”

“They also _died_ ,” Krayt mutters with the irritated growl of someone forced to repeat themselves too often.

“The Sith _survive_ ,” XoXaan hisses, skittering up into the eaves in a fit of pique that leaves a sparking sort of tension in the Force. “You know it as well as I. We survive and we rise again, as we _always_ do. As you saw amongst the devoted in the sands. As you bore witness to in the tombs.”

She pauses suddenly and Krayt stills in spite of himself. Her smug pleasure and cruel amusement clouds the room, and for a trembling moment, the pinprick of fear skims his shoulders more.

“How long do you have left, apprentice?” Belatedly, he realizes the prickling sensation comes from the tips of her claws, sinking ephemerally into his flesh. “Before a true master of the dark returns? Before those who left seek you out? Before you realize these lost little lambs are no more prepared for what is coming than the fools who thought us—”

“Hey, Darth Grumpy,” Ahsoka greets from the door, retrieving a hand from where she’d flicked a small bit of Force into the holocron just like her master, leaving XoXaan present, but blissfully stripped of her voice. “I’m taking the kids for lunch.” The dark spirit flares up in pantomimed fury, but she may as well be an ornament for the amount of attention she receives. Instead, Ahsoka steps into the room to investigate the contents of Krayt’s workbench. “That a _new_ hilt?”

“… Yeah.”

“Already?”

“If we’ve got a crystal,” Krayt explains with a measured glance to his fellow instructor.

Ahsoka leans over the arranged pieces with a critical eye, taking care not to move any of it, but making a thorough study. After a few moments of contemplation she straightens again, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Not a crystal, but I think Skyguy dug up something that could work about a month ago. I’ll see if he’s managed to hang on to it. Oh, and Grumps?”

“What?”

She pulls a face, nose wrinkled in disgust, “Consider taking a _bath_ before visiting? Your ancient Sith Master might be dead,” she says with a dismissive wave at the ghost screaming in silent outrage above them, “but the rest of us have functioning olfactory systems.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### From The Author:
> 
> Soooo, that was a random and unplanned hiatus. (๑•́ㅿ•̀๑) ᔆᵒʳʳᵞ
> 
> October was AuroraExecution’s birthday, which means I managed to squeeze out a chapter just before I ended up spending waaaaay too much time on a surprise apartment makeover, she had some much needed time off, and our new favorite video game launched, so uh… time just ran away from us after that! Heh. (❁°͈▵°͈)
> 
> #### Comments on Krayt:
> 
> Anyway, we’re finally back and ready to start wrapping up this fun peak into an alternate timeline, beginning with a look into the creation of Darth Krayt! 
> 
> I actually have a lot of fun writing for him, even though I realize the characterization is a bit different than what we’re used to in Legends. I feel like, in a lot of ways, he’s a prime example of Legends continuity: there’s direct connections to the Star Wars we all know and love, but he’s otherwise something wholly separate from standard canon. 
> 
> That is to say, shit gets really _weird_ with Krayt. So I kind of compacted a lot of it down and squeezed it back into this timeline. ( •̀ᄇ• ́)ﻭ✧ (To be fair, Krayt’s timeline was kind of weirdly long in that way only Star Wars can ignore the fact that your badass, facestomping villain is 90 and somehow surprisingly spry for their age). 
> 
> Regarding specific parts of this chapter that probably aren’t clear without a lot of context:
> 
> The advice Hett gave Anakin post Jabiim was basically that he needed to work through his negative emotions about his murder of the entire Tusken clan that tortured and killed his mother. Turns out, being forced to share the trauma with Obi-Wan was the better route. Who knew? 
> 
> Also, on the amount of lightsabers Krayt uses in this chapter… As a Jedi Knight and later a Master, Krayt specialized in Jar Kai, so when he gets lost on Korriban, he starts with two green sabers. When he finally leaves the tombs, he gets jumped and the Sith from this chapter takes one of the sabers. Down one saber and a practitioner of using two, he picks up some random other Sith saber on his way to get his first back. By the end of this chapter that brings his total to: 1 original, green lightsaber, 1 original, now bled lightsaber, 1 random Sith’s lightsaber. (2 red, 1 green).
> 
> #### Homages:
> 
> Chapter Style courtesy of The Princess Bride (a classic, truly)
> 
> Reunion Battle courtesy of that time Obi-Wan fought Hett outside of a particular farmstead on Tatooine, kicked his ass, and cut off his arm. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> 
> 
> #### Yavinite Terms:
> 
> I will make a point of explaining a lot of these in the next chapter, since Kyora needs a little clarification herself. In the meantime, though, here’s a rough breakdown of who’s who:  
>    
> 
> 
> **Person** | **Known Aliases**  
> ---|---  
> Anakin Skywalker |  Skyguy, Cool Dad   
> Obi-Wan Kenobi  | Uncool Dad   
> A'Sharad Hett  | Darth Krayt, Darth Grumpy/Grumps, Uncle Darth   
> Ahsoka Tano  | Snips, Aunt Ahsoka, Auntie 'soka   
> Qui-Gon Jinn  | Ghost Grandpa   
> Count Dooku  | Uncle Dooku, Grandpa Dooku   
> Sifo-Dyas  | Master Sifo-Dyas   
> Asajj Ventress  | Miss Ventress, Aunt Ventress   
> Quinlan Vos  | Uncle Vos   
> Misc. Vod'e  | Uncle [Insert Name Here]   
>   
> ### RELEVANT TIMELINE UPDATES:
> 
> **19 BBY**
> 
>   * <Shatterpoint> _A’Sharad Hett goes missing while on a mission deep in the Outer Rim_
>     * _Is stranded on Korriban and manages to survive buried in a Sith tomb_
>     * _Discovers the holocron of Sith Lady XoXaan_
>   * <Shatterpoint> Darth Plagueis Is Killed By Palpatine & Darth Akis
>   * Battle of Sundari  
>  <Shatterpoint> Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn't
>   * The Departure of the Sith
>   * General Armistice
>   * Anakin and Obi-Wan Leave The Order
> 

> 
> **18 BBY**
> 
>   * Official End of The Clone Wars
> 

> 
> **17 BBY**
> 
>   * _Jedi Master A’Sharad Hett emerges from XoXaan’s tomb as Darth Krayt_
>     * _Immediately loses a duel, his lightsaber, and his pride; is left for dead_
>   * _Unnamed Sith, mugger of Darth Krayt, goes on a bender through several Confederate Systems, freaking out Parliament and mildly annoying Count Dooku._
>     * _Obi-Wan and Anakin Handle It tm_
>   * _Darth Krayt loses his second official duel under his new title, remembers humility, moves in to Yavin._
> 



	23. In Which Ventress Isn’t Used to Hero Worship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are cleared up, others aren't.
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “My Way” by Frank Sinatra

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV, Lost Jedi City, Central Command

“Your discomfort is understandable,” Obi-Wan offers from Kyora’s right. 

To her left, the pair of teenagers who had spawned his commentary jolt apart, red-faced and chagrined. Rather than stumble over themselves attempting to explain away the obvious, however, awkward embarrassment flutters about them in the Force and swift apologies are followed by uncomfortable winces, before they slip through the nearest door in a desperate bid to escape. It’s tense and uncomfortable, certainly, but Kyora has the distinct impression her disapproval is entirely separate from the kind that now presses Obi-Wan’s lips together in vague consternation. 

“You share in it,” she notes, allowing a measure of curiosity to color her observation. 

Kenobi allows a brief tilt of his head in silent agreement. “We _have_ asked that they keep such activities more… private.”

Kyora can’t help a frustrated tightening of her expression and turns to face her host directly. “You know very well that is neither what I was commenting on _nor_ the source of your own discomfort. Was that not a pair of _padawans_ skirting dangerously close to the Dark Side _openly in the hall_?” 

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows the moment the word _padawan_ leaves her mouth, but says only, “Telling them to stop would not have actually put an end to it.”

“You should have stepped in _anyway_ ,” she curtly retorts, the clear concern of a Healer showing through no matter her personal judgment in the moment. “You _know_ the danger they are in.”

“It is not as though we have moral authority in the matter.” Obi-Wan’s words are calm, though there is a slight tension in his Force signature Kyora has begun to notice in small moments since she arrived. It’s not a constant thing, and after reflection, unlikely true _guilt_ , but it is _something_ , and thus worth pursuing. 

“So you’re just going to watch them Fall?” She pushes, stepping closer instinctively to drive home her point. “To send them off to that Sith in the jungle and wash your hands of the problem?”

Kenobi’s expression turns dry in an instant. “Master Hett—”

“ _Darth Krayt_ ,” Kyora pointedly interrupts, “isn’t it?”

Obi-Wan exhales through his nose and offers a tight smile. “In whichever case, we do not have a Sith… _corps_ … nor do we encourage Falling,” he quite clearly states, turning them both away from the door his students darted behind and resuming the walk to their actual destination. “As I said, your discomfort _is_ understandable. I even share it, to a degree, but it is neither fair nor prudent to hold them to a higher standard than I hold myself.

“It is certainly not perfect, but we find it preferable to losing control of the situation entirely. For now, we are monitoring things. We make time to discuss the relationship and meditate on their emotions with them. So far, providing counsel has kept things more or less under control. We even notified their parents to—”

“Excuse me — their _parents_?” It’s not as pointed as her previous commentary — Obi-Wan Kenobi is nothing but _convincing_ when he wants to be — but there is a sort of built-up bafflement that spills into her inquiry regardless. 

Obi-Wan, however, simply glances over as if he really hadn’t anticipated the question. “… Yes?” He pauses to open a door and politely waves her into a conference room of sorts. 

A few clone troopers glance up from their screens with a wave or a nod for Obi-Wan, while a smattering of other aliens either ignore their entrance entirely, or offer a more casual smile or hand gesture instead. It’s a busy chamber that, especially with its Jedi motifs, reminds her strongly of discussion chambers in the Temple. Even in the rest of her travels through Republic space, she’d be hard pressed to name a place quite as diverse in their command as the Order: to see it here, no matter their current topic of discussion, is strangely comforting.

“We don’t have many infants, you may notice,” Obi-Wan says in the midst of her contemplation, having gathered his thoughts on a question that really should have been less of a surprise for him than it apparently was. “Most are here because their parents couldn’t handle the stressors of attempting to raise a Force-sensitive child without the knowledge or understanding required to train them. The Outer Rim is only now _really_ being developed, you understand. In many cases their entire family was run out of civilized society because their child was too strange or causing too many problems, or—”

“Or Serenno ran a promotional campaign to avoid sending Confederate children to the Order and made _us_ look like some kind of upscale academy in the process,” one of the older looking vod’e dryly comments as he joins them with a polite, “Master Jedi,” for Kyora’s inclusion.

Kenobi cringes in open discomfort. “Yes.” He clears his throat. “Well—”

“You cannot _possibly_ think that is acceptable,” Kyora insists. 

“I _assure_ you, we do _not_ —”

“But you do not _stop_ it, either.”

Obi-Wan exhales a bit too patiently for a sigh and says, “I think you’ll find I have _far_ less influence on the Count than people seem to believe.”

“You _know_ why he did it,” the vod’e mutters as he passes over a datapad with a belated, “Sir,” seemingly tagged on for the sake of making a point more than anything.

Kyora’s eyebrows raise at this and she turns pointedly to her host for an explanation.

“… What I believe Cody _means_ to say,” Obi-Wan drawls, “is that Count Dooku has no actual say in how Yavin is run, and remains largely uninvolved in our affairs…" His expression pinches and he adds, "… except when it comes to his great-grand niece.” 

“His—”

“Yes, you’ve met Anya, haven’t you, Knight Kyora?” Kenobi’s previous discomfort gives way to amusement. “Terribly bright young girl, unfortunately similar in temperament to the Count?”

Kyora blinks slowly as she assimilates this new piece of information. It's… quite a lot to just drop on her like that – a point she largely suspects to be the reason for Kenobi's sudden mirth in spite of their previous conversation. "… You agreed to mentor a Force-sensitive family member of a _Dark Lord of the Sith_."

"And her brother," Cody blandly puts in, stone-faced regardless of the looks he's doubtlessly receiving from _both_ Force users in the room. His only sign of discomfort comes from how he crosses his arms beneath their combined stares. 

Kyora inhales slowly, willing peace through her body as her mind races with the implications. "… You agreed to instruct _two_ blood relatives of your own Lineage."

Kenobi's expression has smoothed over completely to something far more neutral, though he seems incapable of fully excising the mild frown from the way he glances at Cody. "It is not… for that reason," he carefully answers, clearly picking through his words as he speaks them. "For one thing, Voric is not even Force-sensitive."

Not entirely sure what to make of this, Kyora simply asks, "Then why is he _here_?"

"Because he knows better than to leave the rest of us to Anya's whims," Cody mutters. Obi-Wan shoots him a look of open exasperation and the former commander finally relents with a huff and a drop of his hands in an open gesture for peace. "Voric's a good kid, Master Jedi. I've had him in a few classes. He's a little intimidating to the little ones, but he gets along with everyone. He's naturally curious, and if he were a soldier, I'd probably expect him to get in a few scrapes before straightening up, but he’s not a bad kid.”

A significant pause follows as Cody seems to struggle for the rest of his statement. Kyora has her suspicions as to why, but she is patient, so she waits through the silence. Surprisingly, it seems Kenobi has come to the same conclusion.

"… Anya's… more of a handful," Cody eventually summarizes, looking more perturbed with his own assessment than anything else. "It's better she's here, though.”

Kyora does her best to keep her measured exhale from becoming a sigh, but is not entirely sure she's successful. "There is a reason the Order discontinued such tutelage centuries ago," she delicately explains to the trooper, knowing the former Councilor well enough by now to know _why_ he chose not to explain the situation to her in the first place. "It is difficult enough to keep from forming too strong of an attachment to our fellow Jedi," she quietly explains. "The bond of crechemates… of Master and Padawan—" her gaze flicks sideways, but she manages to catch herself before it lingers, "— these bonds _alone_ are difficult enough to manage and they are heavily monitored."

"There was a time, in the past, perhaps even when this place was built, when Jedi Lineages were just as often of a particular gene pool as it was a line of teachers and pupils,” Obi-Wan explains to Cody directly. It feels drastically inefficient to speak through an uninformed third party, and Kyora can't help wondering _why_ Kenobi chooses to continue including his former Commander any further, but refrains from mentioning it for the sake of staying on topic. 

"Before the Reformation, even lacking a solid central command, most Jedi had already adjusted their teaching to ensure pupils were not taught by blood family. When the Order centralized on Coruscant, it became a formal tenet." He turns to Kyora then, unexpectedly redirecting the conversation specifically to her. "That is not what happened with Anya and Voric, however."

"Master Kenobi–"

"Ultimately, Cody is right," he continues over her objection, "it's better Anya is here, with us.”

"She should have been sent to the Order," Kyora instantly presses.

"You know he never would have allowed it." Obi-Wan's tired words have the air of something repeated so often they've genuinely lost their value. 

"I cannot believe you would allow your actions to be so dictated by the whims of a _Sith_."

"… Let me know when you finish with those numbers," Cody quickly cuts in with a brief gesture to the tablet in Obi-Wan's hands, barely waiting for agreement before making a quick retreat. 

The room, Kyora notes, has quieted considerably since they entered. 

Kenobi presses his lips together and makes a small gesture towards the far wall. "… Walk with me?"

Kyora scans the room once more, but inclines her head and turns quickly away from the lingering gazes. Most are just curious. There is no _real_ malice present, only varying amounts of concern and protectiveness. That can easily turn, of course, but she refuses to judge the situation based on their limited understanding of the Force and why she's arguing over something seemingly so innocuous with their leader.

They make it halfway through the room before conversation picks up around them, but Obi-Wan spends his time looking over the datapad, not uttering a word until they approach the far wall and its low bank of information terminals. By then, the tense atmosphere has passed, and the room returns to the productive bustle from when she first walked in.

"It's not that I don't understand your concerns," he finally states while setting the datapad on to one of the terminals. "There are… many differences between how I was raised in the Order and how we have proceeded on Yavin. Every concern you have, I have had." 

"Yet you choose to ignore _proven_ tenets regardless." Her tone isn't the kindest, but without a third party between them, Kyora no longer feels the need to dull her words. "You know where this will lead. You know the histories just as well as any Jedi – _moreso_ than most."

"I am _ignoring_ nothing, Master Jedi," Obi-Wan flatly answers, leveling her with a stare she's only ever seen worn by displeased Councilors. It's more than a little disconcerting to experience it from someone who has so obviously left the Order behind. "We have simply chosen a different path."

"A path that is well known to lead–"

"Is it?" Kenobi interrupts her, his signature a placid pool of serenity where before there had been only durasteel. "Jerof and Lila are no different than the dozens of padawans caught by watchful Masters every year. The Order does not excommunicate because of teenage hormones and neither do we. But the solutions the Order demands of such infractions are simply not available to us. The moment we become hypocrites is the moment our words lose all value. For the sake of those in our care, we cannot allow that."

Kyora presses her lips together at the reminder of what occurred on their walk to the conference room, but begrudgingly nods her understanding of the logic. She may not like it, but as much as her own concerns are well-founded, she has to admit Obi-Wan, at least, is attempting to address them in his own way. With so much of the Galaxy suddenly out of the Order's reach, it is, perhaps, the best _anyone_ can offer for the foreseeable future.

"And surely you can understand how Anya's situation is similar."

"… Are you sure you can _truly_ remain objective in your assessment?" Kyora more carefully presses.

Obi-Wan's expression shifts surprisingly wry with her question. "I don't believe _any_ of her available instructors could," he says on a sigh. "The Order will always see her as _Dooku's_ Lineage." He raises a hand to her interjection before she's even finished forming it. "Oh, as a child, they would have taken her in, but her family would have never presented her for collection. They _barely_ did with Dooku, and that was long before the War. It's a moot point to insist on Temple tutelage.

"So who else is left? Count Dooku himself is, unfortunately, perhaps the most experienced in the training of Force sensitives." The wryness of Kenobi's expression slips into his signature as a sort of tired humor. "Since all of his _recent_ pupils have been Sith apprentices, however, I'm sure you can agree he is perhaps _not_ best suited to the task."

Kyora shakes her head lightly, trying to smooth the pinched expression from her face. "I am surprised to hear the Count amenable to the arrangement."

“Knight Kyora," Obi-Wan's lips twitch with mirth as he says, "the Count _created_ the arrangement. I did not even know the child _existed_ before she arrived at my transport for the trip home."
    
    
    Message-ID: <8293Y4VN.09860492@JO.CRC>
    Date: Cen, 12 04 0986
    From: Kyora, Circle of Healers <184756@JO.CRC>
    Accept-Language: ba-CRC, ba
    To: Jedi High Council, Field Reports <JHC-Field@JO.CRC>
    Subject: Yavin - Interpersonal Relationships
    
    Following previous reports, I have endeavored to assess the mental states of Force-sensitive Yavinites. So far, none of the leadership have acquiesced to repeated requests for an assessment. Of note, A'Sharad Hett was particularly aggressive in his refusal. It is a shame; it would have been greatly informative to observe the mental state of a Fallen Jedi. 
    
    While Master Kenobi appears to share my disappointment concerning the later, he nevertheless remains vociferous in his denials to allow assessments for himself and his husband. For his part, it seems largely due to Skywalker's discomfort, so there may yet be a way forward. The level of protectiveness displayed by Skywalker when I made my initial request is concerning, but not unanticipated. 
    
    Finally, I have added additional documentation regarding the handling of romantic and sexual pairings within their enclave. I took great care to split out the various situations as they were explained to me. I hope to make some headway with regards to those involved.
    
    Resource List: YAVINIV_09860412.holo, YAVINIV_RELATIONSHIPS.holo, YAVINIV_HEALTH_ASSESSMENTS.flx
    

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV, Lost Jedi City, Education Wing

Two weeks. That's all it takes for the residents to stop watching her with uncertainty. Kyora suspects just a bit more effort on her part to integrate with the colony could have even improved that timeline. That doesn't make it any less surprising to drift into the back of a classroom and receive nothing but cursory glances from the students and instructor alike. The vod'e at the front doesn't even really acknowledge what could have been an obvious interruption to the lesson – Math, from the look of it. 

"Just in the corner there," her current guide, a young tyrian Twi'lek with an encouraging smile, instructs as she gestures to a set of desks and chairs tucked away from the semi-circle arrangement around the instructor. 

Kyora follows suit, but cannot help a frown for the suggestion. Had she been anticipated? It had been her want – her _directive_ – to observe daily life on Yavin. It should be obvious that setting up classes specifically for her to observe would go against this.

"Ah, we got lucky today," Iva titters on in hushed tones as they settle in. "I thought for certain we'd have to stand the whole time."

"… I would have preferred it," Kyora murmurs through a confounded frown. At the press of confusion in the Force she is becoming all too used to, she simply shakes her head and takes a moment to arrange her datapad for her notes. "There should be no need for _accommodations_. It was my intent to observe instruction as it naturally occurs."

Iva blinks wide, grey eyes at her, and for a single, bizarre moment, Kyora could _swear_ the woman's presence in the Force does the same. Then realization spills between them, and she stifles a buoyant giggle with the back of her hand and leans close enough that her words won't carry. "We _usually_ have class observation, Master Jedi." At Kyora's raised eyebrow, Iva grins, the warmth in her Force signature all but enveloping the two of them in a pocket of eager sincerity. "You know, for the new instructors?"

"… _New_ instructors?"

"Mmhm!" The vod'e glances up from his review for only a moment, but Iva immediately drops her voice into a chagrined whisper with a small wave of apology. "We've really expanded in the past year, you know? Originally, it was just the Vod, but most of them already kind of have things to do? You should have seen Uncle Rex when he was running security _and_ three classes! We used to trade pictures of the places he passed out during the day," she finishes with a conspiratorial grin.

After the moment it takes to parse through _that_ particular storm of information, Kyora eventually says, "So then your primary instructors are… vod'e?"

Iva nods with needless enthusiasm. "Oh yeah. The vod'e are _Goddess-sent_ , truly. They've been more or less in charge of most courses since _I've_ been here at least, and apparently they're really good at picking up new things too! Lasae said Uncle Eight taught last year's course on advanced astrogation, even though _he_ learned it like a _month_ beforehand. But I guess that's pretty typical for them? I don't know, I could _never_ manage something like that. 

"Anyway! This year, there's about twice as many instructors as last year, which had already doubled because of the all the younglings the Confederacy keeps sending in, so we've actually kind of run out of vod'e to manage the load and instead we have an instructor apprenticeship program."

Kyora gives up on her classroom notes about halfway through the deluge and sets her datapad to holorecord instead. Her hosts will likely insist on the destruction of the recording later, but at least she can take notes before then. In the meantime, she can focus on the overflow of information that spills in every which direction from the strange padawan at her side. "… I imagine that is compounded by a lack of available Force-sensitive instructors?"

"Hm? Well… honestly, that's not too bad yet," Iva hums thoughtfully. "Most of the beginning stuff like meditation and saber forms are just part of the day? Any one of us can run them."

"… Curious," Kyora murmurs. "I imagine just separating out the Force-sensitives alone would cause staffing difficulties."

Iva's signature ripples with something somehow both thoughtful and dismissive. "Yeah, I guess that would?" She shrugs and gestures to the class before them. "But since we don't do that, we don't have to worry about it until advanced instruction. _That's_ been more of a problem, I guess? Especially since Auntie ‘Soka's off planet so much lately. It's pretty much just The Team most of the time."

Deciding to tuck that curious bit of information aside for later — Force-blind students doing formwork is somehow both the most and least bizarre part of her experience thus far — Kyora says, "Since I arrived, I have heard… several… familial terms for your instructors. What makes you not refer to them similarly?"

Her question is clearly unanticipated, Kyora thinks, as her guide leans on to her elbow with an exaggerated tap of her lips in thought. "Hmmm… well I guess the simple answer is I remember my father _and_ the war. It's kind of weird to talk about The Hero Without Fear like that? But it's not all that strange for a lot of the younglings who don't really have families… or are just used to having multiple parents, I guess." She shrugs, thoughtfulness dropped in a second. "But I met Auntie ‘Soka after I got here, and Uncle Darth during training, and _all_ of them answer no matter what you call them, so I suppose it just never really seemed like something to worry about."

Kyora nods, attempting a small press of understanding into the Force between them. Iva's reception is another burst of warm welcome and a brilliant smile apparently distracting enough that one of the Force-sensitive younglings glances over his shoulder at them. Iva turns before Kyora can react, silently shushing with a finger over her lips and a secretive wink at the boy. He looks flustered and spins quickly back around. 

"… You mention only four possible instructors for matters of the Force," Kyora attempts to quietly redirect, internally hoping it's closer to three. "Is there also an… 'apprenticeship program' for instruction in the Force?"

"Mmm… not in the same way." Iva gives a lithe stretch over her desk while contemplating her answer, reclining back thereafter to deliver it. "Some of us older students get pulled to watch the little ones, but for the most part additional studies tend to wait on visiting lecturers. Oh!" She lights up with the hushed spark of memory, leaning deep into Kyora's space so her excited whispers don't bother the class they're supposed to be observing again, "Did you hear Aunt Ventress is visiting?"

Inhale calm. Exhale troubles.

"… I _have_ been made aware of that," Kyora tonelessly replies, doing her best to pass her concern into the Force. 

Iva, of course, manages to entirely miss her companion's stiff response and quietly continues to gush, "It feels like it's been _ages_ since the last time she showed up. I can't wait! She's _really_ good for sparring—"

"You don't say."

"Mmhm! A lot more willing to spend time on it too, you know? It's _great_. I mean, Auntie ‘Soka's good for, like, _everything_ and Uncle Darth will definitely tell you what you did wrong, and it's not like The Dads don't _try_ , but they're just so _busy_ all the time—" She cuts off with a wry laugh and a shake of her head that flicks her lekku about in a way Kyora swears she's only seen in holo dramas. "Anyway, if you want to see what we've been taught, you should watch the sparring matches. They're _much_ more interesting."

" _Iv'amersu_." The vod'e sighs her name with such expertise, there can be no question as to the frequency of his requests for silence.

Iva has the sense to look bashful, at least, as she chimes, "Sorry, Uncle Crys~" in much the same way.
    
    
    Message-ID: <8293Y4VN.09860512@JO.CRC>
    Date: Pri, 17 04 0986
    From: Kyora, Circle of Healers <184756@JO.CRC>
    Accept-Language: ba-CRC, ba
    To: Jedi High Council, Field Reports <JHC-Field@JO.CRC>
    Subject: Yavin - Preliminary Educational Assessment
    
    Updated timeline for course assessment attached. This will require far longer than anticipated.
    
    According to previous directive, I endeavored to review all curriculae regardless of Force content. Academic processes are convoluted at best. Credentials of instructors often dubious, and reliant on personal experience.
    
    Apparently, one of the projects superseding holonet connection was the recovery of the datafiles and physical documentation in the library in the previous Jedi settlement. This particular project appears to be in a much better state. Estimated completion is within the year and what has already been recovered is actively being worked into the available curriculum.
    
    Resource List: YAVINIV_09860417.holo, YAVINIV_EDUCATION.holo
    

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV, Primary Excavation

Obi-Wan is halfway through a sentence about field trips when he just… _stops_. Kyora glances around instinctively. The ruins themselves are so well-worn it’s almost impossible to call them Sith, and certainly hadn’t _seemed_ active. Apparently, though, something has still dragged her host’s attention away. The Dark Side? A Sith ritual? She senses _nothing_ but the strong thrum of the Living Force swarming through the jungle surrounding them.

“… I need to check on Anakin,” Kenobi finally announces, sounding more baffled and exasperated than _concerned_. Either way, he turns on his heel and immediately strides away, leaving Kyora to blink in confusion on her own.

She follows suit quickly, catching up with swift strides and a furrowed brow. What she had just witnessed only fit the descriptions she’d read of — “I was unaware you had visions?”

“I don’t.” Obi-Wan’s words are curt, but not impolite. It seems as if it is simply difficult to focus on them. “It’s the bond.” He speeds up as they round a tent and catch sight of a youth lingering near the edge of… some kind of crack in the ancient stone floor that spreads the entirety of the dig site. “Trin.”

The boy looks up, pulling back from the roped-off edge of the ground. “Oh, hey,” he says, unconcernedly glancing at Kyora with open curiosity.

“What happened?” Obi-Wan immediately insists, striding over to what appears to be a much larger and far deeper crevice than it initially seemed at a distance. 

Trin looks between them, for the moment seeming more interested in the Jedi Knight following his dad than the concerned way Obi-Wan crouches at the edge of the pit. “Cool Dad went down the hole,” he pronounces.

Obi-Wan frowns, but his attention drifts again, and Kyora steps closer in spite of herself, _itching_ to dig into the doubtlessly fascinating activity happening across the bond she has been routinely refused access to. Before she can even inquire, however, Obi-Wan’s presence in the Force softens to warmth once more, and he brushes a hand over his beard (to hide a sigh, she thinks). 

“We should get a vod’e.”

“Oh, I radioed for one already,” Trin helpfully announces, pointing to a terminal a few feet away. “Just after I finished the log entry, I requested a lift, but they said they didn’t have any?”

“… Did you tell them Anakin threw himself into an abyss?” Kenobi flatly inquires. 

“Uh… no? Should I have mentioned that?” Trin answers, pulling a datapad out from a bag at his hip. “Is it protocol? Oh! Did he find anything?” 

Obi-Wan shakes his head, tossing Kyora a glance that looks the same as Madame Che’s expression when she finished dealing with Kenobi, and says only, “Yes, it’s protocol.” Then he turns back to the pit with a frown and falls silent again.

Kyora splits her attention between Kenobi and the child now studiously updating his notes, both curious and concerned for the youngling’s care, if nothing else. He doesn’t have a braid and isn’t projecting anything at her, so she’s fairly certain he’s not Force-sensitive. Yet Anakin appears to be spending time with the child in some kind of teaching capacity, based solely on the conversation so far. 

“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” Trin suddenly informs her as if she is the one in need of assurance.

“What shouldn’t?”

“Their conversation,” Trin says, looking up from his notes to peer past Obi-Wan, as if he can see anything into the dark crevice below. “Aunt Ahsoka says it’s rude, but…” he trails off with a shrug and turns back to Kyora, “it just takes a bit longer when they aren’t next to each other? You get used it.”

The itch returns. Stronger. 

Kenobi steps back from the ledge a moment later, scanning the distance before looking back to Trin. “Did you update the vod?”

“Yes, Sir!” Trin chirps eagerly. “They said they aren’t sure if we still have a jetpack, and they’re looking and to check in with you.”

“Good job.” The amount of pride-determination-curiosity that spills off Trin from the small bit of praise despite him being Force-blind is all too noticeable. “Make sure you have the note in there correctly, now: always get a vod’e when Anakin decides to do something idiotic.” 

“Oooh, okay, okay.” Trin brings his datapad up again to adjust the order. “Cool Dad said he told you—”

“So now ‘lightsaber’ and ‘maw of darkness’ counts as informing me. Good to know,” Obi-Wan dryly comments, though there’s a bit too much fondness in the warmth of his signature to draw true reprimand. 

“Cool Dad mentioned something about getting his saber back when we walked by,” Trin all too helpfully offers up.

“… He lost his lightsaber… by walking near it?” Kyora can’t help skeptically posing. Sure, she’d heard the stories of Skywalker’s frequent trips to retrieve a new crystal during the war, but she’d never thought it was due to sheer… _disregard_.

“He lost it _three years ago_ when we were clearing out the main area here for excavation,” Obi-Wan explains with a tight expression.

Kyora’s eyebrows climb all on their own. “… How many lightsabers has he forged since you _left_?”

Obi-Wan’s signature shifts to wry amusement before he reigns it in again, but the expression lingers. “Not enough to warrant that question.”

Kyora huffs slightly, but acquiesces with a small wave of her hand. “I mean only that I recall seeing him with a lightsaber when you visited.”

“Well,” says Obi-Wan, “he had a _hilt_.” 

Kyora’s expression is so full of disbelief it actually prompts further explanation all on its own. She counts it a win, however small.

“Oh it was _functional_ , but at the same time it lacked a kyber crystal,” Obi-Wan explains, shaking his head and glancing towards the pit once more (in lieu, she suspects, of his absent husband). “The crystals themselves don’t occur natively on Yavin, and while we’ve managed to scrounge a few here and there, Anakin has actually done a lot of work with substitutions… So much so I suspect it was largely _being at the Temple_ that prompted this… unexpected detour for today.”

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV, Indoor Training Grounds

“ _Quinlan Vos_?”

The Jedi in question turns slightly towards Kyora’s shocked query, a mildly curious expression melting into easy neutrality. “Healer Kyora,” he greets, as if he’s not three feet from a Sith Assassin currently attempting to shake off a youngling and a particularly persistent Twi’lek padawan. 

Even having been warned, Kyora can only look between Ventress, Vos, and the various younglings eagerly darting in to speak with the pair, with blank confusion. She didn’t know Vos _personally_ , but she knew the Jedi Shadow well enough from his various trips to the Halls of Healing to recognize him on sight. Moreover, he didn’t seem anywhere near as surprised to see _her_. 

“Vos — _Vos_!” Ventress’s irritable growl cuts through the rapid churn of Kyora’s thoughts, momentarily turning Quinlan’s attention back to the woman he’d arrived with. “Why are these children expecting me to _teach_ them?”

“It’s your own fault.”

“It’s _Skywalker’s_ fault her guard was awful, not _mine_ ,” she grouses, absently batting a youngling back from the saber at her hip.

Quinlan smirks. “You’re the one that decided to correct it.”

“ _Four months ago_ — Vos!” 

If Kyora didn’t know any better, she’d think the esteemed Jedi Shadow was actively biting his cheek to keep his laughter at bay. 

“Ugh, make them stop _following me_. This isn’t _funny_.”

“Aunt Ventress, you _promised_ ,” Iva wheedles from the side, grinning broadly. “You know how Master Kenobi gets when people break promises.”

Ventress rolls her eyes and punts the youngling at her hip towards the Twi’lek demanding her time. “If you want a spar, why are you attacking me with children?”

“Well, it’s _working_ —”

“ _Vos!_ ” 

“Looks like you’ve got it under control,” Quinlan mildly returns with an easy roll of his shoulders. Ventress makes a rude gesture with her hand, but seems too engrossed in debate with Iva to otherwise acknowledge him. Vos turns away with another nod for Kyora to follow a few feet back. “We should give them some space.”

“… I’d ask if you’re certain it is safe,” Kyora begins on a sigh, “but I know it will make no difference.”

“Been here that long already, hm?”

“I should be asking _you_ that,” Kyora parries with an open frown. “ _Ventress_ I was warned about.”

This time, Quinlan’s amusement is a bit more obvious. “Didn’t tell you about me, huh? I expected that from the Council, but it sounds like Obi-Wan’s starting to like you too.”

Kyora presses her lips together and turns to watch the two women just now drawing their sabers across the room. The youngling, at least, has made haste to the far wall and the pile of crates his friends have gathered on to watch the show. Part of her wants to leave Vos’s commentary alone (and prepare for the inevitable injuries instead), but she can’t help churning over the meaning behind them.

The High Council apparently already _had_ someone on Yavin before they sent her officially. Well, not entirely, she supposes. Quinlan, after all, has only just arrived and, given his companion, it seems unlikely his entire assignment is with the strange commune surrounding them. It’s oddly reassuring when she thinks about it that the Council had not sent her in blind. No doubt many of her reports are simply being compared with those they’ve already received, as well, so their biases can weed each others’ out. 

It’s all very logical, really. 

“… How long?”

Quinlan raises his eyebrows just slightly, but it’s a small gesture as he too keeps his gaze on the match. “Almost the whole time.”

Kyora withholds a wince for the blow Iva takes to her thigh, actively pressing worry-concern-disapproval into the Force as she watches the Twi’lek shake off the pain and launch back into the match. “… And Ventress?”

The smirk returns. “Classified, I’m afraid.”

 _Before Yavin,_ Kyora translates with a slight nod of acceptance. During the war, perhaps. No, _probably_. 

“Ugh, what is that _stance_?” Ventress barks in disgust, one saber pointed to Iva’s right knee. “You’d get murdered in five seconds by a _real_ Sith!”

Iva laughs brightly and instinctively pulls her foot in to correct herself. “I know, I know, Grandpa Darth said the same thing!”

Ventress twitches visibly and this time Vos can’t actually withhold his own chuckle. “Oh, she’s good.” His words are strangely proud in a way that makes Kyora arch an eyebrow for explanation. “Iva might need more saber work, but that manipulation? She _knows_ Dooku’s still a sore spot, so she found a way to mention it and Ventress _walked right into it_.” He gestures out towards the assassin now hounding Iva with both lightsabers drawn. “And she knows it.”

“… You know her well.”

Kyora’s fairly certain the wry glance she receives for her commentary has more to it than Vos lets on, but accepts it. Shadows are often like that, after all. “Wouldn’t be doing my job, if I didn’t.”

“I certainly hope you don’t expect me to accept that is all it is.”

Quinlan inclines his head slightly — accepting and quietly understanding in a way Kyora has found herself strangely missing in this place. Iva lands in a pile of cargo seconds later, to the shocked and excited gasps of the younglings some distance away, and Kyora instinctively steps forward. Asajj’s raised saber stops her short. 

“We’re not _finished_ , Jedi.” Ventress shifts her guard, tossing Kyora a greedy, all-too-excited grin. “Oh, don’t you worry, she’ll be _all yours_ when I’m done.”

One of the cargo boxes is lost to the following flurry and all Kyora can think is how utterly wasteful it is to hold a sparring match in a cargo bay when they have perfectly suitable training rooms. Beside her, Quinlan represses a wince and mutters something about the price, likely knowing he’ll be on the hook for it. Still, his amusement-enjoyment-fondness is all but palpable as he watches the match. 

“Are you sure—?”

“None of us would be here without her,” Quinlan immediately interrupts, crossing his arms but not bothering to look away.  


Kyora folds her hands together and takes a moment to refocus her thoughts. It seems to be the correct choice of action; a minute later, Quinlan continues.

“She dragged _herself_ out of the Dark, Kyora,” he says as the woman in question uses the Force to toss half a cargo box at the padawan struggling through their so-called spar. “She claims it wasn’t on her own, but it was pretty _damn_ close, if not. That sort of determination is… I can stand with someone like that. And the longer I stood with her, the more the War opened up. In many ways, Asajj Ventress is the reason the Council actually _sent_ Obi-Wan to negotiate the Armistice.”

It’s not surprising to hear there was much more going on during the war than she was aware of; Kyora never had the need to know all the behind the scenes minutiae of tactics, strategy, and intergalactic politics. She very much doubts she is the only Jedi with a predilection for personal improvement who, thus, tend to rely on people like Vos and the High Council to handle these matters. Being told these things now only serves to clarify scenarios she had already accepted. 

Instead, Kyora focuses on the part of Quinlan’s statement that is _actually_ difficult to believe. “ _That_ ,” she says, pointing to Asajj slamming her heel into Iva’s stomach, “does not look like someone who walks in the Light.”

“… She’s a little rough around the edges.”

“ _Force_ ,” Iva croaks from the ground several feet away rolling to her side and shakily trying to push herself up again. “Aunt Ventress— you’ve… been holding out on me,” she pants. 

Asajj’s grin is downright _feral_. “You didn’t have a Healer last time, dear,” she purrs, sauntering close enough to kick Iva’s lightsaber away and crouch down beside her instead. “Are you ready to visit her yet?”

“ _Never_.”

“Good girl.”

Kyora quietly reserves a room in the medbay on her datapad.

### 14 BBY, 4th Month: Yavin IV, Primary Kitchen Facilities

Heat gushes out with the clank and clang of dishes as a padawan dashes through the kitchen door. The Rodian can’t be older than thirteen, Kyora thinks, based on the child’s coloring and size, but it’s still easy to see her eagerness through the wide window into the kitchen. She dances up on the balls of her feet to call out something over the din of a busy kitchen, half distracted by the apron she’s still hastily tying into place over her robes. Anakin turns, smiling broadly at his newest recruit and says something back — it’s muted through the duraplast and stone, but it looks like some kind of assignment, as the padawan dashes further into the kitchen moments later. 

One of the older children calls something out from further back, to which one of many vod’e gives a long-suffering look. The Rodian pauses in her run to call a pot over from a wall, focusing carefully enough to hold it steady over the heads of various other vod’e and children until it’s finally plunked down beside the man just shaking his head. Anakin gives a whoop that can be heard in the largely vacant dining room and Kyora glances to her only companion in it with a slight raise of her eyebrows for the man’s absent amusement. 

“You’re not going to help?”

Obi-Wan blinks innocence too well for a man who spent his afternoon tormenting younglings with an in-depth review of the reproductive systems of the several sentient species they live with. “Helping?” he parrots.

“With dinner.”

“Oh, _Force_ no,” he laughs. It’s a soft, warm mirth that wouldn’t be out of place in the Temple Gardens. “I’ve been banished from the kitchens more or less since we found them.”

Kyora takes a moment to process his unexpected answer, ultimately echoing his own words back with a curious, “ _Banished?_ ”

He nods and returns to one of the many datapads laid out on the dinner table before him. “Oh yes, _quite_ banished. An unfortunate attempt with pancakes, I believe it was.”

A short chuckle escapes before Kyora can entirely prevent it. “I admit, I find that surprising for one as skilled as yourself,” she says and turns back to her observation of the chaotic kitchen.

The corners of Obi-Wan’s eyes crease with his easy smile. “Apparently I’m only good for slicing things,” he relates, clearly ruminating on a fond memory. “And meringue, although I do not recommend reminding Anakin of it.”

Kyora decides to take that statement at face value and move forward. “You’re teaching them a lot of… practical skills, I’ve noticed,” she says instead, nodding toward the organized chaos of Anakin leading a mashup of younglings, padawans, vod’e and volunteers in the room beyond. “Cooking, in this case. I saw many of the younger children assisting with household chores earlier as well.”

Obi-Wan gives an absent shrug and trades one datapad for another. “It seemed useful to teach everyone. For all that the city itself is a boon, we still don’t have core world conveniences. Our few, functional droids are only what Anakin and some of the vod’e have managed to salvage from elsewhere. Neither do we have a particularly large populace from which to draw specialized staff.” He makes a few selections on his new pad and gestures between himself and the kitchen window with his free hand. “Anything that needs to be done is on us. So as much as we prioritize learning, that _must_ include being self-sufficient, resourceful, and ultimately contributing back to the vod.”

Kyora gives a soft hum of agreement, quietly adding more notes to her own pad. “I can see the value in that,” she says. “I suppose it is a similar philosophy for your mixed classes?”

Obi-Wan glances up only briefly, absently shifting curiosity-confusion-inquiry into the Force and returning to his work. 

“… Between Force-sensitive and Force-blind students,” Kyora immediately clarifies with hardly a thought for the method of implied question.

“Ah!” Kenobi more genially replies, glancing over to catch her gaze. “Specifically the saber forms, meditation and Force theory, I assume?”

She gives a short nod. “It’s a little… strange, you have to admit. The Temple may provide some instruction for Force-blind politicians, but this is… hardly the same.”

Obi-Wan inclines his head and returns his attention to the datapad in his hand long enough to finish a note before answering. “We had a good deal of discussion about it, actually. We already have several learners who will likely never be strong enough nor comfortable enough with their use of the Force to pursue something similar to Knighthood. Most will probably lead fairly normal lives once they’ve mastered themselves and their connection to the Force.

“Likewise, many of the people who sought us out for training have siblings that would otherwise have to make do without instruction if we could not accommodate them. In many cases their families sacrificed everything they had to get their Force-sensitive child proper instruction. If we did not make room for the rest of the family—” He pauses, lips pressed together against the thought. “Well, we could hardly turn them away.”

“I have yet to hear of _anyone_ you have turned away,” Kyora idly mentions. 

Kenobi’s expression turns fond once more, his gaze momentarily shifting back to the large window before them where his husband is laughing and nudging a nearby Togruta attempting to stifle their own laughter away from a pot of soup. “We haven’t,” he confirms with a shrug. “It hasn’t been easy to accommodate everyone, of course, but we make do.” 

In the kitchen, the muffled clang of something falling draws the attention of several cooks — along with Anakin’s hasty dash into the baking area they can’t quite make out through the window. Obi-Wan doesn’t look particularly concerned, only shaking his head with a fond, if exasperated, expression Kyora has become all too familiar with in her time on Yavin. 

“In any event,” Obi-Wan distractedly murmurs, turning back to his datapads once more, “we have noted a large benefit to incorporating Force-blind siblings, asylum seekers and, well, anyone else particularly curious into the classes. Meditation alone is an excellent foundation for personal growth, I’m sure you’ll agree, and the rest serves as a sort of bonding experience among the students. To be frank, it’s also much easier to source instructors when we wait until everyone has enough experience and knowledge to decide for themselves what path they want to pursue in life.”

“Well,” Kyora hums somewhat skeptically, her gaze still mostly stolen by the the commotion they can’t entirely see through the kitchen window, “It’s certainly original. You are having some success with this method, then?”

Kenobi tilts his head, his gaze lingering on a datapad, but attention momentarily distant. It’s only a moment, and then gentle agreement sinks into the Force between them. “I don’t claim we haven’t had difficulties, of course. We _are_ running into some scalability problems, of course. There’s a tremendous amount of overhead involved in individually managing everyone’s coursework and we have a growing population beyond that. It is not easy to balance the two, but the vod does excellent work with minimal resources.”

“That much is certainly clear.”

Anakin walks back into the view during the pause in conversation, drawing a clearly embarrassed young boy over to the Togruta he’d spoken with earlier. There’s another short back and forth as he sets the kid up on a stool and appears to give him a new task assisting with the soup instead. It’s… surprisingly domestic, Kyora thinks. Certainly not a scene she’d expected to witness when introduced to the man, covered in dirt and grinning like a loon beside an exasperated Mace Windu.

“… Speaking of resources,” Obi-Wan casually interjects several minutes into her distracted rumination, “I do not suppose you would be willing to part with some documentation regarding your directions for Iva’s care?”

Kyora just barely refrains from an uncivilized snort for the decidedly unsubtle segue. “You know very well I will pass no Jedi texts into your hands.”

“There are many we _already_ possess, however,” Kenobi idly points out without looking up from his current document.

“… Many that have already been assigned to the padawans in question — which you must already know if you are bothering me with the request,” she keenly retorts, knowing full well her askance look is hardly as quelling as she wishes it was. Obi-Wan’s smirk is hardly helping. “I was gratified, at least, to hear your… vociferous dislike for that entire debacle. Honestly, _what_ were they thinking? Sparring a _Sith Assassin_ —”  


“Former.”

“Nearly _current_ for the damage she did!” It’s more an irritated huff than actual recriminations, Kyora realizes with some dismay. She shakes her head lightly. “ _Vos_ , at least, should have known better.”

“Iva should have as well,” Obi-Wan concedes on a heavy sigh. “Your care is much appreciated either way. Asajj thinks so as well, no matter her statements to the contrary.”

“It is _quite_ clear what my presence apparently means to her,” Kyora mutters. “Elaborate medical care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### From The Author:
> 
> I realize at this point we’re basically writing this for ourselves, but I really hope the three of you that stuck around are enjoying yourselves! φ(ﾟ ωﾟ//）♡
>
>> EDIT: You guys are amazing! (´∀｀)♡ I had no idea so many people were still following this labor of love! Ao3 doesn't really give the sort of metrics to let you know how many people are actively reading updates, so we just assumed it was fairly small at this point. Anyway, just wanted to say thanks for all the lovely comments and kudos~
> 
> There’s no major timeline updates, just Kyora slowly losing her biases/mind, catching up on daily life on Yavin, and Anakin happily living his best life in the background. <3 <3
> 
> Happiness Detour is now concluded: plot to resume in the next chapter. ^(#｀∀´)Ψ See you then!


	24. In Which We Wrap Up A Few Loose Ends...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other shoe drops. Sorry, not sorry. :3
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “Golden” by The Wanted

### 14 BBY, 5th Month: Castle Serenno

"… You are certain these personnel records are accurate?" Sev'rance glances up from the datapad as she poses the question. 

Dooku arches an eyebrow for her wording, but he already knows the question she's really asking and as such doesn't push it. "No such concern for the cargo?"

Her eyes brighten just the bit, and he can all but see the churn of her thoughts in their depths. She doesn't look down again, because she's already seen that portion of the report. It was, of course, the very reason any of it was brought to his attention to begin with. It's been well over a week since then — far longer than the typical lag time in intelligence reports during the war. He'd anticipated losing some contacts with the breaking of that alliance, but the sheer level of sudden competency with regard to this particular project is quite astounding. 

And equally worrisome.

"… It is the mix of the two that I find intriguing," Sev'rance eventually settles on.

Dooku inclines his head in return. "My thoughts precisely." 

They lapse into silence once more, Sev'rance's gaze thoughtfully lidded and lightyears away. It's a look Dooku is familiar with after so many years between them. He's learned comparatively little, he thinks, of her homeworld, for all she has learned of his own. He's never held it against her, even before, and now allows her the time she needs to plumb the depths of memory for whatever spark led her there. 

"I cannot think of a single reason for their involvement," she says at last, gaze sharpening as she raises it to his own again. 

And that, more than anything else, makes him certain of the meeting ahead of him. "Then you do not believe it a lone actor?" He leaves her own circumstances unsaid, but the history lays open between them. 

Sev'rance gives a sharp shake of her head immediately. "No. Not that family." Dooku raises his eyebrows just enough and she adds, "No one would dare," with a wry quirk of her lips.

"Infiltration?" 

"Possibly," Sev'rance allows even as doubt seeps through her signature. "More likely… reconnaissance."

Dooku gives a thoughtful nod in return. It makes sense, for a certain level of caution. Reconnaissance can become infiltration as needed, and remains relatively easy to explain away until then. And anyone would be respectably cautious if they'd caught wind of something with such destructive potential along their borders. 

"Then have Vandalor continue his efforts with the doonium,” Dooku decides with an absent glance for the time. "In the meantime—"

"It may be best for me to look into this myself," Sev'rance uncharacteristically interrupts.

Dooku's attention narrows sharply on his apprentice, focusing on the feel of her presence in the Force. "… There is something else," he announces. "Something you fear."

She does not attempt to argue the point, but takes a moment to find her words before answering. "It is my hope that such concerns are ill-founded, however that doesn't mean they should not be investigated."

"By you."

Sev'rance inclines her head. "There is much Vandalor can glean from the shadows, but in this case… I may have a more productive approach."

"… Then I leave it to you, Sev'rance Tann," Dooku swiftly decides, turning for his office door with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Do what you think best."

* * *

When the numbers on the screen start to blur, Rush finally leans back in his chair, a hand pressed soothingly to his eyes. It’s been quite a long time since he’s had to spend so much of his own time on this sort of thing. Since all but falling into his position near the end of the war, most of the minutiae — multitudes though it may be — could be delegated downward and anonymized until the people actually producing the reports had little inkling which accounts they were actually processing. 

He doesn't dare do that now. As if he even _could_ , limited as he is to his own resources and his own company. 

“These ones as well.”

It’s an interesting sensation, Rush somewhat hysterically considers, of all but jumping out of his skin with fright while not moving at all. Apparently, it really is possible to be too tired for _fear_. He draws a shaky breath and drops his hand to return his attention to the Count whose comment had reminded him so starkly _where_ , exactly, he’s been spending his week. 

“… Forgive me, which accounts are you—?”

“You’re no good to anyone like that,” Dooku interrupts with a pointed glance overtop a pair of gold spectacles. 

So many hours in and he’s still not used to the image the Count makes sitting at a large desk strewn with datapads, for all the Galaxy like a businessman straight from the old world novels Rush used to drift off to when hours of study left his brain too wired for sleep. It was one thing when he was lost to the numbers. A word here and there he can manage. It didn’t leave enough time to remember all the terror the man across from him had inflicted on billions of lives not so very long ago. These moments in-between, though? They may well be the end of him.

_Well so be it,_ he thinks with a sort of tired stubbornness only hours upon days of intense research can drag from the depths of his being. Idly, he wonders if all those rumors about Force-sensitives reading minds really is true, given the Count’s otherwise unprompted sigh in his direction. 

“Well this is all anyone is getting,” Rush mutters as he pushes himself to his feet to work out cramping muscles. “I just need some caf.” He can feel Dooku’s gaze on him as he walks over to the provided tray of refreshments resting on a low table by an unlit fire several feet away. It’s for the best, he knows from experience, to force himself to _move_ during these long sessions. That the caf in question is, of course, some of the finest he’s had this side of the midrim is also a helpful incentive. “Your hospitality is exceptional, as usual.”

“Spare me the sophistry,” the Count somewhat predictably grumbles. 

Rush pours a second cup, marking his guess against the man’s actions in the past week moreso than having actually witnessed him consuming anything aside from basic meals and a rather impressive amount of wine. “Civilized discourse requires a certain amount of ritual,” he argues almost on instinct, “don’t you think?”

If he didn’t know better, he’d think the Count was… _amused_ by his answer. Dooku’s unimpressed recline has hardly changed by the time Rush turns back around with two mugs of steaming caf, but he straightens as the blackest one is set before him, primly removing the finely crafted spectacles and setting them aside. “I have more than enough ritual in my daily life to require any further in the form of empty platitudes.”

Padmé was right — as usual, really. The man really does sound like some old holodrama at times. Although the ‘villain’ part of her description is chipping away with every hour they spend locked in a comfortable office manually reviewing well over a century’s worth of financial transactions. “I like to think I am not so bad at this as to attempt saying anything to you I do not actually mean,” he rather flatly answers over the rim of his own mug. 

The look Dooku sends him this time is remarkably unreadable.

Rush doesn’t blame him. He used to be more tactful than this. Hell, give him twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep and some extra zeros on several balance sheets and he may well be again. He sighs and swallows down more of the fantastically addictive brew, letting it jumpstart his thought processes all over again. At least Dooku takes a sip of his own.

Success, no matter how small, breeds confidence. “Although, if you’ve such a hatred for platitudes…” Rush allows his words to trail off with a raise of his eyebrows.

Dooku echoes the look back at him. “I do not make a habit of repeating myself, Clovis.”

Rush sighs into his drink and resigns himself to several more hours of trawling the depths for truths no one wants to know. “Everything has a price.” Part of him is still amazed the Count has continued to personally see to the mess himself, though Rush has long since suspected their reasons to be fairly similar for that. “It’s hardly my fault you’ve yet to name yours.”

“And hardly my own you are in so poor a position that you would be willing to accept an arrangement without one,” Dooku blithely returns.

He is, Rush tiredly notes, both painfully correct and _definitely_ amused. 

### 14 BBY, 5th Month: Coruscant, Senate District

The gilt and glimmer of carefully crafted artificial light shimmers gently off golden plates, twinkles along the rim of crystalline flutes, and lingers warmly in the amber liquid they hold, already half empty for all Rush has needed the assurance. It’s _nice_ , of course, to be so grandly welcomed back into a place he once called home. The Senate District has been anything but in the past couple of years. To be invited, with reservations already made upon arrival, to one of the most high-end establishments the moment his ship slipped into Courscanti air space was… flattering to say the least.

Current company certainly helps. 

Padmé may _always_ be a sight for sore eyes, he has long since accepted. Even when so many of their interactions lately have had shadows of the past and specters of dark futures woven through their every word. Perhaps, he thinks, _because_ of it, even. Their first few discussions when he was desperate for aid in hostile territory had not been the most _pleasant_ but she had come through in the end. Just as he knew she would. Senator Amidala was nothing if not a woman of her word. 

“… Rush.” Her voice drips just shy of reprimand even as painted lips quirk up in dry amusement. “You’re doing it again.”

Rush straightens immediately, covering his brief gaffe with a smooth raise of his glass in her direction. “My apologies, Lady Amidala,” he says with pointed redirection to the sumptuous wealth laid out in the private dining area surrounding them, “After so long without so many pleasant sights, I find myself at a loss for what to focus on and with you looking so radiant…”

She rolls her eyes but just waves him off. Rush takes another long draught of the strange, amber wine in his glass. “I can’t believe you still do that.”

He raises his eyebrows and she huffs, turning to glance out a deeply tinted window into the Coruscanti night. It’s barely anything more than smears of color and pinpoints of far off buildings. An intentional affect for the privacy of Senatorial patrons, if Rush recalls correctly. “And _you’ve_ picked up a new habit,” he answers with a nod for the way her fingers tangle in the fine chords of metal dangling several gems over her collarbones.

Her expression turns droll as she redirects it back to him. “One _might_ expect all that time spent in the presence of a Dark Lord of the Sith would make you _less_ inclined to flirt your way out of admitting you’ve been staring into space for several minutes.”

Rush winces openly. “My apologies,” he adds again, more sincerely this time. “You understand I still have quite a bit of that on my mind after all…”

“So you’ve mentioned.” Padmé pauses then, absently detangling her fingers from her necklace to straighten in her chair. “I hadn’t… intended to linger on this all night, but… you _are_ all right?”

He can’t help the small bit of warmth that unfolds with her inquiry, and thus relaxes back into his chair with a soft laugh. “Ah, how pathetic must I have looked—”

“Convincing enough for me to call back,” she dryly retorts with a single, raised brow.

“Fair enough,” Rush admits with a raised hand, “fair enough. I did need the aid and you came to my rescue,” he readily follows with another raise of his glass in her direction, “as always.”

“What did I _just_ say?” 

She doesn’t seem nearly as tired of his words as Dooku, but Rush can’t quite help his own cheeky reply. “Careful, Padmé, you’re veering dangerously close to actually sharing an opinion with the Count.”

The strangled noise in her throat is more than worth it, but the precisely flicked olive that smacks the side of his face is unexpected, to say the least.

“ _Lady Amidala_ —!” His scandalized recrimination barely makes it out over a startled laugh.

“Do _not_ tell me you flirted with _Count Dooku_.” Her shocked, not-quite-joking demand only serves to deepen the laugh into a low chuckle. “You _didn’t_. You _couldn’t_. You—”

“Most certainly _not_ , Padmé, Padmé, ah— _peace_.” Rush quickly sets his drink down lest he drop it and gives a little wave of his hand. “Not that I am _against_ flirting one’s way out of bad situations, you well know.”

“Don’t I.”

“But I _do_ try not to overstep my bounds,” he insists to her look of utter disbelief. Well, he probably deserves that. “Not with married couples at the very least!”

Padmé just shakes her head and leans back in her chair. “You act like I am not _fully_ aware of your reputation, Rush Clovis.” The way she says it, eyebrows slightly lifted, gracefully reclined and utterly sure of herself carries all the weight of every imperial command he never heard her make.

And who is he to resist such a regal demand? 

Rush raises both hands in open surrender, good humor easing him from genuine affront all too quickly. “There are… invitations, and then there’s… well, I know the Muun _also_ have a reputation in the Core Worlds, and I can assure you it is unwarranted.”

“Oh?”

He… can’t quite place her tone of voice, and shifts with some discomfort, trying to feel out which part she wants him to elaborate on. “Ah, yes. Marriage is … quite heavily regulated for a reason.”

Padmé makes a quiet, contemplative noise and leans forward, her fingers sliding carefully through the thin chains of her necklace. “And… _invitations_?”

Rush very nearly chokes on his drink and hastily returns it to the table once more, a familiar sort of awkward terror coiling in his gut. He’s… he’s not an _idiot_. At least, he likes to think he’s not. Generally, he even knows when someone is openly flirting with him. But _this_ is… he clears his throat and plucks the next closest meaning he can think of. 

“Ah, not as many as I’m used to as of late,” he says with his best charming smile.

Her brow furrows as if he’s said something purposely obtuse and she can’t decide if he’s really that dumb. Or maybe he’s spent too long walking on eggshells around people who seem to think squinting slightly is some sort of incredibly emotive gesture and is now reading far too much into everything and everyone else. 

Honestly, he’d prefer to just… not have this conversation now. He’d barely managed to convince himself to accept her invitation in the first place.

He’s tried to be better. In a large part due to the woman frowning across the table at him. Yes, it had come too late, and yes, she had every reason to hold him to his previous actions. Rush honestly wouldn’t have blamed her for completely ignoring his desperate pleas for aid on Serreno just a few short weeks ago. But she didn’t. Because Padmé Amidala can set aside her personal grudges and wants, and needs, and conflicting interpersonal relations to do what is _right_. 

Rush _likes_ to think he’s gotten better at that, too, but he’s also gotten better at being honest with _himself_ and, well… 

Padmé’s lips quirk again and amusement smooths her features. It’s… rather terribly pleasant, unfortunately. “Rush Clovis, are you _actually_ … turning me _down_?”

Kark it all. 

Rush’s breath escapes all at once. “My most sincere apologies, Padmé,” he hastily begins. 

“You don’t have to _apologize_ , Clovis.”

“No, I can only imagine how difficult it must be—” 

“That’s not exactly how I would—”

“—to be so separated from one’s spouses as often as—”

“ _What_?”

“You must — what?”

Silence falls thickly between them. Padmé frowns, eyes slowly narrowing as the silence stretches. Rush belatedly realizes he’s holding his breath, but can’t quite convince himself to change that fact before Padmé responds. Bit of a pathetic way to die, his overworked brain chitters towards the edges of oxygen deprivation, but at least his data will be in good hands.

Padmé lets out an aggravated growl and tilts her head into the delicate pinch of her nose. “Shiraya’s _grace_ , people still believe that?”

Rush exhales.

“ _You_ believe that?” Her beleaguered stare is both terrifying and somehow pitiable.

_Get it together._ Rush draws a breath, clears his throat and, very politely says, “I’m… afraid I’m not sure to what—”

“Did you really think I was inviting you to some… awkward foursome?” She sounds so… utterly exasperated it takes him a moment to process the words. 

Relief crashes over him immediately and he sinks thoughtlessly back in his chair. “Oh, thank the _Stars_.” Padmé’s expression twists dry. “Do you have any idea how long I spent trying to figure out how to turn you down if you _were_?”

“… I am still attempting to reconcile the fact that you apparently thought that was the purpose of this dinner?” 

“Well, not all of it, obviously,” Rush quickly rallies. “I just… you _are_ friends with the Senator of Alderaan.”

“One of these days…” Padmé sighs and her words trail off with a shake of her head. “This has nothing to do with — Rush, I’m not _married_. Please tell me you know that.”

“… I am aware there is nothing on record…” Rush carefully replies; his previous relief quickly slipping through the cracks. 

“Because there is. no. marriage.” 

“Of course,” he blankly agrees, trying to find his footing in this new minefield. “That would be… un-politick.”

Padmé makes a sort of distressed, almost disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “Well. That answers… several questions, unfortunately.”

“… Pardon?” Rush quietly manages, somewhere between confusion and trepidation. He’d anticipated something of an awkward conversation at _some_ point during the course of dinner. Mostly, however, it had been focused on how to artfully turn down an invitation that apparently was never intended… in spite of the very specific way she’d presented the offer of dinner over the holo. It would certainly be far from the most scandalous event he’d participated in as a Senator. 

But now Padmé is sighing with a level of frustration he’s only rarely witnessed from the former queen — and only ever in private. “I am… honestly amazed this is _still_ so much of a problem, but apparently I need to clarify.”

Rush makes a small, but gentle motion for her to continue, attention politely riveted to the curve of her frown and the tired lid of her eyes. 

“I am not now, nor have I _ever_ been involved in the relationship Anakin shares with Obi-Wan,” she quite flatly announces, for all the world like a woman speaking simple truth. 

It’s not that he doesn’t _believe_ her, per se… it’s just that. Well. There’s the truth and there’s reality and the Senate is made of people who can pluck the two apart rather skillfully. Some of his doubt must show, he thinks, as her expression drifts into wry disappointment and her glass primly retrieved. 

“You don’t believe me.”

Rush clears his throat quietly. “It’s not that so much as…” He hums lightly in thought, tilting his head, and eventually offers his best disarming smile. “I would have had a very, ah, _different_ opinion during the war, at least, concerning Master Skywalker.”

Padmé’s short chuckle is lost into her drink, and it takes a second between the two for her to find her words. “Is _that_ why you were going to turn me down? _Anakin_?”

“Well, it’s certainly not due to preference,” Rush says as quiet relief loosens a small laugh from him as well. It’s probably that, as much as the alcohol that leads him to admit, “Padmé, you _know_ I have found myself drawn to you in every way since we first _arrived_ , and as much as I may well have _deserved_ to be left for dead, well, it leaves a certain… impression—”

“You’re terrified of him.”

Rush raises his glass to that, amusement feeling far better than the awful tension of earlier, even if it is at his own expense. 

“Fair enough,” she agrees with a quiet laugh of her own. “It’s not as if you’re wrong, after all. He’s always been very… _protective_.” There’s a brief pause, but then Padmé quite wryly adds, “… especially when we were in a relationship.”

“I _knew it_!” 

She waves aside his near gleeful exclamation with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “But that was _years_ ago, Rush. We broke it off _at least_ a year before they married.”

He really can’t be blamed for the sheer amount of surprise that shows from her revelation. Perhaps if he had been prepared — for secrets and intrigue moreso than a relaxed dinner in good company — perhaps then he could have shuttered his shock and the ensuing revelations that pass clearly across his face. For if _he_ had made that error in judgement, how many _others_ must also have?

“… _Oh_.”

“Mmhm.”

“Oh _Padmé_ , my _dear_. The _whole time_?”

“Mmmhmmm,” Her expression flattens, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Honestly? I used to think it was kind of useful in the beginning, but now?” She sighs, setting her drink down to tangle her fingers in her necklace again instead. “I can hardly remember the last time I went on a _date_ , let alone anything else.”

Clovis settles back in his chair with sympathetic shake of his head. “It is admittedly far from the same, but you have my empathy, Padmé, for what it’s worth.” She quirks her brow at that, silently prompting further explanation. “Well,” he begins, pausing to clear his throat, “let’s just say the years haven’t been kind to either of us to varying degrees. This is probably the first dinner I’ve attended that _wasn’t_ for business in… several years, at least. And even _then_ …”

She waves her hand and he trails off, watching as she rises gracefully from her chair. “Let’s leave business here, then. Join me for dessert?”

It takes a moment for Rush to blink away his surprise, but he quickly folds his napkin over and stands as well, immediately offering his arm with a genial, “Of course, I would love to.”

Padmé accepts the offered arm with a regal nod as she steps in closer. “And Rush?”

“Yes?”

“Just to be clear, that _was_ a bedroom invitation.”

“… O-oh…”

Well, then.

### 14 BBY, 5th Month: Yavin IV, Loading Bay

“You’re not _really_ leaving, right? Like, not for good?” 

It’s a youngling, so Kyora takes the moment to step away from her ship to address the small nautolan staring up at her with wide, dark eyes. “I am unlikely to return.”

The boy frowns, pressing confusion-wonder-dislike into the Force and instinctively Kyora presses calm serenity between them instead. “But what about Iva? And Uncle Tod?”

“Khol.” Kyora glances over to the mirialan teen quickly closing the distance ahead of what appears to be a small group of padawans lingering by the bay doors. “You know we can’t keep visiting instructors,” he continues, brushing aside a length of his robe to crouch at the nautolan’s side. He’s emanating softly just as all the other Force sensitives here, but it’s a calm, cool serenity that would not be out of place in the Temple.

“It’s all right,” Kyora reassures the two as her new companion gathers Khol up into his arms. It’s an affectionate gesture, but one she largely suspects is actually designed to make it easier to draw the youngling away. “Anakin is still finishing with the astrogation computer. We have time.”

“I just want to know when she’s coming _back_ ,” Khol insists, only partially to the mirialan boy he’s now firmly latched to the side of before turning back to Kyora directly. “Or do you not know?”

“ _Khol_ —”

“It’s all right,” Kyora repeats, turning her attention to Khol who is now closer to her own height. “I am not sure if I _will_ be back, young one,” she attempts to explain once more. “It is not up to me.”

“But if it was?” Khol continues in wide-eyed curiosity. Behind him, Irah sighs and shifts his hold, expression and presence in the Force all but radiating apology.

Kyora shakes her head mildly, somewhat amused to find herself smiling at the gentle insistence. “If I can, I will visit,” she says simply.

“Good,” Khol announces with a childishly definitive nod. “I want to learn too. Dad said I don’t have enough control yet, but I will next time, so you’ll teach me too, right, Aunt Kyora?” 

Honestly, these _younglings_. Irah looks like he could melt into the ground for all he somehow manages to keep the embarrassment from afflicting anything beyond his cheeks. Kyora gives a soft laugh at the combined image the two present and says, “Well, I should think that depends on Irah, no?” 

The mirialan in question balks slightly, eyebrows raised. “… Master Kyora?”

“You have been practicing, have you not?” Kyora hums with an expectant look. 

“I— yes, yes of course. Every day,” Irah quickly answers, absently shifting the young boy in his arms to sit more comfortably against his side. “I’ve reviewed the texts you suggested with Master Kenobi, as well. It’s very similar to our healers back home. He said we could speak with them sometime later, after Iva’s recovered?”

Kyora makes a thoughtful noise and makes a mental note to review those records when she returns. Out of professional curiosity, of course. It wouldn’t do to share such things outside of the Order… but it _would_ be beneficial to brush up on mirialan techniques should she return. Purely so she would understand what has been done in her absence. 

Out loud she says, “There are many mirialan in the Circle of Healers, it would not surprise me to find a rich history there.” 

Irah nods, his signature rippling with determination-curiosity before he can smooth it out again. “I look forward to reviewing it with you, then… perhaps by correspondence if it will be some time?” Hope drifts out plaintively no matter the way he schools his expression.

All at once, Kyora remembers the stubborn way Irah had first insinuated himself into her self-appointed healing sessions and doesn’t bother suppressing the wry tug of her lips for the way he now attempts to back her into agreeing to continue. “Well, that will be up to your fathers, won’t it?”

“Won’t what?” 

“Dad!” Khol exclaims, immediately squirming his way out of Irah’s hold and scurrying over to launch himself into Anakin’s instead. 

Irah just sighs in Anakin’s direction as the man catches Khol halfway down the ship’s ramp, swinging the child into his arms in much the same way as the padawan before him. “What’s up to me?”

“And Master Kenobi,” Kyora mildly corrects, mostly for the sake of argument.

“Same difference,” Anakin writes off with a shrug. 

“Whether or not we can stay in correspondence,” Irah smoothly jumps in, stepping forward in such open, earnest appeal, Kyora’s a bit surprised she can’t _see_ the way it radiates off of him. “Father already made arrangements to my study _and_ meditation schedules to accommodate. Surely we could … fast track the holonet connection a bit? For Uncle Tod’s sake?”

“Oh? Not Iva?” Anakin’s amusement is thick in the Force, but would be obvious from the small grin and the way his eyes sparkle as he turns his teasing attention from Irah to Khol. “And what about you? What’s your excuse?”

“… Excuse?” Khol echoes blankly. 

Irah’s cheeks redden to a dusky brown the same moment Anakin gives a sharp laugh that echoes easily through the small loading bay to the padawans now peering openly through the doorway. “It’s not an _excuse_ ,” he mutters defensively.

“Well, lucky for you, _I_ already left the encryption key with Master Plo at the Temple,” Anakin hums with — in Kyora’s opinion — entirely too much preening for someone who was once Jedi. “So we don’t _need_ the full connection just yet.”

“You’re the best!” Irah launches himself into a fierce hug made only slightly awkward by the child-sized growth already latched to Anakin’s other side. 

“Whoa, whoa, slow down there,” Anakin chuckles, nevertheless radiating pride and affection as he returns the gesture with his free arm. “You need to make sure Kyora’s interested in actually—”

“You’ll comm us, won’t you Aunt Kyora?” Irah immediately puts in, detaching from his father to redirect his affections — only to pull up short beneath her cool glance, cough, and nervously tuck all of his exuberance back into his personal shields and offer an awkward bow instead. “Er, I mean, may I expect correspondence, Master Kyora?”

Anakin doesn’t quite manage to stifle his amused snort. 

“… I will have to speak with the Council first,” Kyora cautions, attempting to ignore the all too smug, knowing look emanating from the Chosen One three feet away.

That seems to be the floodgate for the rest of the children to stream in from the doorway; emboldened by their senior’s enthusiasm and Anakin’s… well, mere presence, more than likely. Kyora can’t even find it in her to turn them away. She had a timetable in mind, and a schedule to keep, but it’s quickly sidelined by last minute questions on anything and everything they can think of. 

It reminds her a bit of the scramble to see off Vos and Ventress the week prior. A handful of padawans had slipped in from classes to say their goodbyes alongside former slaves, who openly passed on marks to Ventress at the same time. Several others had even inquired about out-going mail. Just imagine, she’d thought, a Jedi Shadow running _courier services_! 

She’s not so different, now. 

Even once the hubbub dies down and most of the padawans return to class, Anakin takes several minutes to review their various requests while walking her through the adjustments to her navicomputer. “… and if the comm sharing becomes that big of a deal, you can always get in touch with Snips. That line’s hardcoded into Plo’s, so it should —”

“Yes, I think I have the gist of it by now,” Kyora interrupts before he can launch into another, no doubt long-winded explanation of the entire spectrum of modifications made to allow for such a thing. 

Anakin gives her a knowing look, but he _does_ redirect his attention to the navicomputer instead. “Anyway, I tweaked things a bit while you here. Should make up some time on the way out. Just remember—”

“— it gets wiped after the jump to Phindar, yes, I recall.”

He just sighs and straightens up from the console, hands raised in an open gesture. “Look, you’re not the one that’d end up explaining how you got lost in a hyperspace lane to two dozen padawans that expect you to show up for distance learning next week.”

She narrows her eyes slightly, but at this point it’s more performative than anything. “You know I won’t be available so quickly regardless.”

“Yeah, but I’d still rather not have to explain the first part, okay?” He counters on a grin and a shrug. 

Kyora sighs and slips into a formal bow. “May the Force be with you, Anakin Skywalker.”

The over-full sensation of ease-amusement-contentment doesn’t relent, but his expression smooths to something more wry and he returns the gesture in kind. “And you, Knight Kyora.” He steps past her then, making for the open ramp back into the loading bay and pauses just partway down, glancing back over his shoulder. “Oh, and say ‘hi’ to Mace for me!”

Her expression turns withering. “I’ll consider it.”

He grins and jogs out with a wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### From The Author:
> 
> Cookies to everyone who catches the references this time around! Let me know what you spotted! I can’t wait to give out the gingerbread (ﾉ^∇^)ﾉﾟ
> 
> Seriously, it’s been so much fun tucking in all the Easter eggs and trying to keep pace with everything. I’m almost sad the next chapter will be the last for this story… but I’m getting even more psyched for part two!
> 
> #### On Rush
> 
> Hokay, _so_ … we realize Clovis is a… _controversial_ … figure to say the least, so in the interest of keeping the notes from becoming their own novel, I’ll try to keep this short and to the point. 
> 
> A major theme in Shatterpoint Theory is not only people generally making decisions that are better for themselves specifically (or seemingly so, as was the case with Plagueis) but _also_ the notion of people living their best lives. This often requires a heaping dollop of love and, for lack of a better term, radical empathy. You see this a _lot_ in the development of Yavin, in Obi-Wan and Anakin’s relationship, as well as Sifo-Dyas and Dooku, to name a few.
> 
> That’s basically what we’re doing with Rush and Padmé. Obviously, we see a lot of Rush’s poor qualities in TWC, but I think discourse often overlooks the fact that these things do not exist in a vacuum. He has just as many positive traits as negative ones — _more than_ , even, if you want to count. Thus, we don’t really consider him evil (like, for example, Palpatine, who is basically a psychopath ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ).
> 
> If we can see good in Anakin and redemption in Dooku, we can do the same for Rush. Unlike the other two, he hasn’t the benefit of being powerful for most of his storyline _and_ legitimately attempts to reform during TWC. So, yes, he’s back, and yes, he’s _really_ relevant, and, yes, Padmé begrudgingly gives him a second chance (as, again, she does in TWC).
> 
> They work well together, they actually have a lot in common, and frankly Padmé hasn’t gotten laid in a while and knows what she likes. 
> 
> And that’s about all I’ll say about that. └(・-・)┘


	25. In Which Something Wicked This Way Comes…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin and Obi-Wan spend their vacation trying to explain Yavin to a lost Jedi. He’s pretty sure they’re a cult. 
> 
> Waifu Wine Pairing: “At The Beginning” by Richard Marx and Donna Lewis from _Anastasia_
> 
> [Fic Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6GoDtEeTOg74B5fMorZEd0) (for fun and inspiration)

### 12 BBY, 7th Month: Ardan Cross, The Gordian Reach

Anakin throws his head back with a heady moan, flesh and bone fingers tightening sharply on Obi-Wan's hair as he struggles to balance the crash of love-desire- _possession_ thundering through his veins. Obi-Wan shifts up into the pull, relaxing his throat with a practiced swallow until taut lips meet soft golden curls and glances up. Anakin reclines above him, a statuesque creature of sun-warmed skin, taut muscle and a scattered halo of golden hair. Even in the low-lit night cycle of a refurbished Nabooian yacht, it's impossible not to see the years of training in every curve of slender muscle, the strength in every hard plane – the lingering touch of a fierce, jungle sun in the lightness of his hair.

" _Master_ –" The hand in Obi-Wan’s hair twitches with the low whine – wanting more, but lost somewhere along the way between desire and action. The Force shifts and shudders around them, a flurry of memory-emotion-sensation that bursts through the bond between each shivering breath. 

Obi-Wan hums around his husband's hard length and draws back until Anakin's hold firms once more. He stays there, vision full of his husband alone, trembling beneath the competing demands for his attention-desire-obsession: Obi-Wan, with his warm mouth, devilish tongue, and the deep abiding affection-love-awe he washes down the bond — or the sweet croon of power-desire-strength hovering like a malignant fog in the depths of his veins. Half reclined between a bed and a wall, Anakin's naked form resembles those ancient paintings of warriors in repose. Obi-Wan can't help the sudden flood of desire-love- _possession_ that surges through he Force between them.

Above him, Anakin's eyes snap open with a sharp gasp, and Obi-Wan swallows forward again, settling his hands on tense thighs to balance his slow slide back down to the base of the hard length stretching his lips. He doesn't look away and soon after meets his husband's lust-drunk gaze. 

< _Perfect_.>

It takes longer than it should for Anakin to refocus – on him and him _alone_ – but Obi-Wan can already see the rim of beautiful, clear blue irises and that's enough for now. He firms his hold on trembling thighs, allowing his enjoyment of each quaking tremor and every desperate breath to seep thoroughly through the bond, and draws back again, just as slowly as before. A low grown follows him up, but Anakin doesn't look away again.

"Master…" The word passes tremulously into recycled air, breaking off with a gasp when the wet heat of Obi-Wan's talented mouth envelops him to the root before Anakin can even finish the thought to _push him there_. Too-much-too-sudden clashes fiercely with desire-need-love, manifesting in another, frustrated whine, and a sharp tug on Obi-Wan's hair again. "Need– _ha_ – _more_ –"

Obi-Wan lingers. He draws a slow breath through his nose, trying to stem the tide of lascivious thoughts spiraling through the bond. His own desire has always been something easy to ignore, after a lifetime of patience and the willingness to let it build in denial. _Anakin's_ has always been something else altogether, and holding himself against being lost to the onslaught is never easy. If they were home, if this was less _need_ and more _want_ , he could entertain letting it run rampant between them.

But they aren't home, and he can still feel the covetous _itch_ slithering through Anakin's presence in the Force. So Obi-Wan steels himself against the swarm of desire, against the last throes of the Dark's desperate reach, and slowly pulls back along the hard length stretching his lips and straining his throat. The hand in his hair twists, Anakin groans, and the sensation-memory of spit-slick lips enveloping his own neglected erection shoots through his mind. 

_Anakin—_

He’s not even sure it’s an admonishment at this point. 

Then Anakin laughs, husky and low in his throat, and love-relief-pride washes over the rest. Obi-Wan leans down again, this time following the affectionate tug on his hair. It's all too easy to relax his jaw, roll his tongue with the motion, and resettle his knees against a metal floor that had been cool however long ago he'd settled on it. There's a slight ache that's been keeping him grounded since the hand tangled in his hair, but it's not enough to force a change of position. 

" _Mn_ – You're so _good at this_ ," Anakin all but purrs, his grip easing into something better resembling an affectionate massage. His eyes lid, and there's a flicker of something – one last fleck of possession that shivers down the bond with the image Obi-Wan makes, kneeling on the floor between Anakin's legs, head bobbing as he draws them into a steady pace. If he wasn't so used to seeing himself through his husband's eyes, it could easily prove disorienting. As it is, a low moan passes from his throat to Anakin's cock from the undeniably erotic imagery. 

The hand on his head shifts, strong fingers flexing against his scalp, urgent, but not demanding. Obi-Wan shifts his grip as Anakin's hips buck up, moving along with the motion until he has the leverage to push him down to the bed once more and hold him there. There's a strain in his jaw, and the tension of a battle in his shoulders as he reclaims the pace – something moderate at first, that picks up with each shudder of the man in his hold. 

"Obi– _ah-_ Obi-Wan– Just – _Force_ ~!" 

Adrenaline-lust-desire crests somewhere amidst the babble and Obi-Wan presses to the root once more, swallowing as Anakin tenses all around him. Cum spurts, hot and thick, down his throat in the same moment the crescendo of pleasure-cupidity-love crashes through the bond. It tumbles about in a nearly violent ricochet until the only thing Obi-Wan can hope to focus on is the steady action of his throat swallowing with every quaking tremor until Anakin collapses into a languid sprawl on the bed.

“… _Kriff_ …” Anakin pants to the ceiling.

The breathless declaration draws a soft chuckle from Obi-Wan despite the rawness of his throat and he settles on the floor for a moment to collect himself. “Ah… quite.”

“… Are you—?”

Obi-Wan cuts him off with an affectionate tap against the inside of his thigh. Anakin tenses a little, sending an immediate apology through the bond, which is promptly ignored. “Easy.”

“I can—”

“ _Rest_ , Dear One.” The words are soft — lost a little in the roughness of his throat — but Anakin settles with an easy curl of affection between them. Obi-Wan smiles tiredly and returns the emotion in kind, allowing himself a moment’s respite as well. It’s already been a long night, after all, and his joints have their own complaints on how it’s progressed thus far. 

“Obi- _Wan_ ,” Anakin breathes out after only a moment’s languishing. “Get up here. You’re making my knees hurt.” Then, apparently unsatisfied with Obi-Wan’s lack of urgency, the all too familiar sensation of Anakin’s presence in the Force winds around his torso and hauls him bodily on to the bed.

 _Insufferable_.

“Heard _that_ too,” Anakin declares with a loose grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling gleefully with the entirely nonplussed expression Obi-Wan bestows upon him.

“Anakin you are _barely_ out of the Dark, I do not think—”

“ ’S fine, ’s fine. You worry too much, Master.”

“… Sometimes I wonder if I worry _enough_.” Obi-Wan sighs with his words, but knows they don’t hit as hard as they should for either of them. Anakin’s success is his own pleasant high, and his husband seems equally willing to languish in the deep pool of pride-affection-love spilling over between them. To think, when all of this started he’d expected the free flow of emotion to _ease_ over time. “We should be more careful, you know,” he adds, even while adjusting his position to better draw Anakin against him.

“If I was _more careful_ we never would have found the source of the signal." Anakin raises a hand just enough to rest fondly against the side of Obi-Wan’s face — a languid action that in and of itself seems to take most of his remaining energy. “Besides. I have you,” he adds with the same cheeky grin he always seems to dredge up at the most inopportune times.

“One of these days…” Obi-Wan begins, turning his head into Anakin’s hand with a sigh. 

“Never,” Anakin quietly refutes. There’s no real strength left in his hold to drag Obi-Wan back down to him, but there are _some_ benefits to a mechano-arm, after all. 

Somewhere beyond the ocean of faith that sings out across their bond, Obi-Wan vaguely recalls the roll of uncertainty and concern that should have followed such a declaration. It’s still etched somewhere deep in his bones. That itching reminder to be _careful_ , to re-examine, to step back and review. Then Anakin leans up into the familiar pass of his hands over the expanse of tan skin below and he sinks into the present in a way he’s never managed on his own. 

He needs the touch to ground _himself_ after all the time and focus on Anakin. After weathering the storm, buried somewhere deep under the waves. After plunging into the maelstrom, side by side as they always are, digging his heels in and holding firm to the tether that would lead Anakin back to him — 

“Master.” 

“It’s fine. I’m—”

“If you even _try_ to tell me to ignore you, I’ll tell Artoo to make an emergency landing, Force help me.”

“I– _what_?” Obi-Wan stumbles through, his grip tightening over Anakin’s hip so he can push himself up far enough to frown down at his husband. “Why in the _Light_ would you—?”

“A vacation would do you some good,” Anakin somehow manages with a perfectly straight face.

Obi-Wan’s flat look of disbelief is, unfortunately, rapidly losing its effectiveness. “ _Anakin_. We’re _already_ on vacation.”

“Running hyperspace in—” No amount of stubbornness can keep the yawn from slipping out, but Anakin pushes on regardless. It’s rather unbearably charming. “— investigations is still _working_. Just because I happen to like the sex that comes after Sith holocrons…”

The corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth twitches up in amusement no matter his intentions. “I fail to see how attempting to enforce _further_ downtime is intended to _help_. We both know you’d be stir-crazy and reconfiguring communications by the third day.”

“And we both know you’re just trying to distract me from the fact that you’re _still_ hard,” Anakin immediately rebukes. He shifts, then — just a slight bend of his knee to emphasize his point with a firm press of his thigh.

Obi-Wan inhales sharply, barely restraining his reaction to that _alone_ , although if Anakin’s smug expression is any indication, it’s hardly helpful. He sets his jaw and slides his hand down to push the offending thigh back down. “I can wait.”

“You _shouldn’t_.”

“But I _can_.” It’s an old fight, and Obi-Wan’s exasperation has long since lost its bite. He leans down, carefully pressing their foreheads together in a silent bid for quiet that, somewhat surprisingly, actually seems to work. “You might be the Chosen One, but you’re just as human as the rest of us, Dear One. I can _feel_ your fatigue, you know. It’s a small miracle you can _move_ let alone argue this much… although I suppose I shouldn’t be quite so surprised to find you so inclined.”

He feels more than sees Anakin roll his eyes. “ _I_ don’t need to move,” he adds with a very purposeful roll up from his hips to resettle farther back on the bed, laid out and inviting. 

Obi-Wan swallows against a dry throat and moves instinctively after, one hand still drifting affectionately along the inside of Anakin’s leg. “I—”

“If you didn’t need it, you’d have _actually_ turned me down,” Anakin keenly points out, no matter the sleepy yawn that lingers yet in his words. “S’ go on already.”

Somehow, concern smothers sparking lust and Obi-Wan hesitates again. Anakin’s frustration is nearly palpable, but Obi-Wan catches his gaze and holds it. “You’re in no shape, Dear One.”

Anakin just sighs out his aggravation and falls back with a rake of returned, frustrated concern of his own. “You’re not allowed to be a martyr, remember?”

“But—”

“We _have_ Bacta, Master.” On queue, the first aid kit tumbles off the wall by their bed, scattering a few of its contents on the well-worn sheets.

“And _you_ need rest.”

“I need _you_ more,” Anakin blithely announces — although the effectiveness of his announcement is somewhat blunted by a large yawn. “Mm-nyway, we’ve got time. Few hours before we even hit Elamposnia. Who knows after that? Most places aren’t _Yavin_. It’s not like we’re just gonna… trip over Sith ruins the moment we land.”

### 12 BBY, 7th Month: Sith Ruins, Elamposnia

They do, in fact, fall into Sith ruins almost immediately upon arrival. 

Anakin probably should have known better, but in his defense, Obi-Wan _definitely_ should have and only one of them was actually suffering from Force exhaustion at the time. The quiet hum of amusement in Obi-Wan’s presence is all his husband actually says on the matter, though, which… okay, he supposes it’s _fair_. Even without a penchant to see-feel-know things when half drowning in the Force, their missions have almost _universally_ been a series of unfortunate events.

Sometimes, he can’t help but wonder if the Force enjoys laughing at them.

“Anakin.”

He waves off Obi-Wan’s quiet reminder of the present and leans into the more subtle pulse of the Force still attempting to skirt his senses. It’s a slippery sort of thrum: a vein he can’t quite hold firm beneath the skin. The kind of thing that should be making him tense and twitchy — or would have, he knows, during the war or his apprenticeship before it. Earlier in their marriage, he’d blamed the steady bleed of calm curiosity coiling endlessly from Obi-Wan’s side of the bond, but he knows better now. Now, the observation passes over him and his only thoughts are for the task at hand.

So he takes his time, buoyed both by the steady glow of his master’s quiet interest and the underlying hum of pride that radiates endlessly between them. It’s slow work; pushing, prodding, and feeling his way blindly over the surface of whatever strange machinations the Force has been twisted into by way of ancient injury, forgotten ritual and the perpetual motion of Sith architecture, but it’s a familiar process. One that threads them carefully between towering trees, haltingly through dusty, stone passages and, perhaps predictably, smack into the thundering heart of something forgotten, Dark, and undeniably Sith.

“Part of me is always a little concerned it’s gotten this easy,” Obi-Wan mildly observes with a thoughtful stroke of his beard.

Anakin gives a self-righteous huff. “Easy for _you_ , maybe,” he says, turning partway back and crossing his arms. “All _you_ had to do was follow me.”

“And keep you from walking into everything along the way.”

“A real challenge.”

“You’d be surprised.” Obi-Wan’s mirth sparks in his eyes even in the low light of yet another Sith ritual chamber buried in centuries of stone. 

Anakin just shakes his head with a roll of his eyes — he wasn’t going to _walk into things_ , thank you, there just wasn’t a need to focus on any of it with Obi-Wan around — and goes back to pulling a half dozen or so small lights from a satchel at his waist. “Let’s just fix this and go home.”

“ _Less than_ three days,” Obi-Wan observes in a tone that’s just shy of neutral. If Anakin couldn’t sense the man’s intense amusement, he may well have missed it entirely. Still, it hardly warrants more than a rude gesture in-between knocking his growing collection of Force-driven lighting into working order and sending them floating into the air. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you didn’t enjoy these little trips anymore…”

“ _Do_ you?” Anakin can’t help teasing, chuckling quietly.

“I daresay I _don’t_ , if mysterious aberrations in hyperspace lanes and curiously docile ruins aren’t enough to spark your sense of adventure anymore.” 

Anakin barely manages to restrain another roll of his eyes and tosses the last of his lights into the air instead. “I could always turn the lights back off,” he says as fond memories of a hundred previous missions drift lazily through the Force. 

“It _does_ rather ruin the ambience, doesn’t it?” Obi-Wan muses as he meanders through the broad chamber, carefully cataloguing every jagged rune and dusty console abandoned to flickering disuse. He pauses by one of the still-humming machines, and bends over to sweep a thick layer of dust off the top. “There now, that’s better…”

“Anything interesting?” Anakin strides over, glancing around to double check for safety on habit. 

“Just that it’s actually in Basic.” Obi-Wan slides aside in the same moment Anakin leans over for a better view. “Think you can make some headway on it?”

Anakin gives a thoughtful hum and trails his fingers over the controls. The Force follows after, dipping into shallow crevices and spilling through clogged ventilation until the dust, dirt, and grime swirls up in a misshapen imitation of a padawan’s training exercise. It disperses into the air with a flick of his fingers, leaving him with a thankfully much cleaner set of buttons and switches. 

“… Doesn’t look familiar,” he murmurs as the console screen flickers through multiple graphs. “How old do you say the settlement here was?”

“Above ground?” Obi-Wan clarifies in the same moment confirmation flits between them. “A couple hundred years at best. I’d say this place _far_ outdates it.”

“One of these days, I’m _going_ to figure out how to do Vos’s trick and save us the research,” Anakin mutters. The console beeps when he tries another switch and he gives an explosive sigh. 

“And until then?” 

He doesn’t have to look up to know his master is hardly repressing a dryly amused smirk. 

“What, you think I can’t?”

“Learn a hereditary trait?” Obi-Wan drawls. “I can’t imagine why anyone would doubt you capable of _that_.” A fond smile slips across the bond and for a moment Anakin actually forgets it’s his own. “More to our immediate concerns, however,” his husband continues as he draws a light into one of the darker corners of the room, “is why you’d prefer psychometry to simple troubleshooting.” 

Anakin shakes his head lightly and straightens from the console to glance back over his shoulder at his husband. Obi-Wan has one hand outstretched towards one of the small pyramids of light floating overhead, carefully directing it down closer to what looks like a table of some kind. His cloak is a little faded, but even with the hood down it’s difficult to shake the image of a Jedi Master carefully examining whatever lays before him with the sort of quiet wonder distinct to Obi-Wan. 

Somewhere deep in his chest, warmth blooms and spreads until its overflow prompts Obi-Wan to glance up from his perusal, eyebrow quirked. Anakin shrugs haplessly and passes the sudden wash of love through the bond. A sluice gate opens somewhere on Obi-Wan’s side, allowing the entire spillover to splash into the Force instead, but his return brush of amused affection proves his lack of judgment more than any simple words could. 

“Sorry.” Anakin grins with only the barest hint of sheepishness. 

Obi-Wan waves him off. “Would you like to meditate?”

Anakin shakes his head and turns back, glancing down at the console again. “No, you should keep an eye out. I don’t want to stay here too long.”

That brings renewed interest through the bond and Obi-Wan steps away from his own observations to rejoin him at the small group of machines. “Why? What am I not sensing?”

“You’d probably feel it fine if you were trying to run the thing,” Anakin explains. “I’m not sure how, but whatever it’s doing is affecting the flow of the Force – you can kind of feel the shift when you make a selection. It’s pretty subtle though, and I’m not sure how it's managed to screw up a whole section of a hyperspace lane…”

Obi-Wan frowns, but nods thoughtfully as Anakin settles the rest of his concerns-plans-memories between them. It’s quicker this way, and more thorough besides. There’s still a moment after, though, when Obi-Wan pauses and Anakin can feel the swift churn of his thoughts but doesn’t join them. He does his own work as he waits, beginning the methodical process of uncovering the effect of each button and switch. He’s pretty confident he can handle his part, of course, so the rest is really up to Obi-Wan.

Not too long after, his husband gives a quiet sigh and passes faint agreement through the bond. “Just _be careful_ ,” he cautions, resting a warm hand in the small of Anakin’s back. “I’m not convinced some old machinery suddenly decided to change outputs all on its own.”

* * *

Sometimes, Obi-Wan really wouldn’t mind being _less right_. 

Today, that moment comes only a few minutes after Anakin’s absent little noise of success. It’s not much beyond a quiet, “A _ha_ ,” the swift drop of largely incomprehensible schematics fluttering through the bond, and a vaguely unconcerned notion of warning. Obi-Wan barely has the chance to glance over before his husband’s presence becomes a sudden, unmistakable beacon in the Force. It’s only natural, really, that any Force sensitive being on the planet would investigate such an unlooked for, powerful vergence simply blinking into existence. 

Surprisingly, the one that shows up isn’t Sith. Or even from some similar, long-forgotten faction. In fact, Obi-Wan feels a measure of relief when the being drawn like a moth to Anakin’s flame steps into the strange glow of a half dozen floating, Force-driven lights. 

“Master Jedi,” he greets with a polite bow halfway between Anakin’s back and the open door. 

The old man pauses only a step into the room, a slight frown tugging the corners of his lips but otherwise unruffled. He seems somewhat unprepared to be called out for something that seems so obvious to Obi-Wan’s clear memory of the Temple robes he has long since abandoned. But then, perhaps that’s the problem. 

“My apologies if we’ve disturbed your research,” he pleasantly continues. “The local government assured us—”

“Cease your ritual and I will hear you out,” the newcomer announces with the serene command of one who is surprisingly comfortable lingering in the edges of Anakin’s bewildering display of sheer strength.

Obi-Wan sighs behind his hand. Anakin isn’t even present enough then to tease him for the disquieting certainty that follows. “Yes, well, I’m afraid that is a rather… untenable suggestion at the moment.” 

As expected, his reply is met with a wary narrowing of dark brown eyes. The man’s lips tighten just slightly, tugging wind-beaten skin into deeper creases. “I do not know who sent you, but if you are a friend, you cannot know that which you seek to manipulate. And if you are Jedi, you should very well know better than to try.”

Force help him, he shouldn’t find this so tiresome _nor_ so amusing. He blames Anakin and calmly unties the collar of his robes. “I am Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he begins again. “The man behind me—”

“The Sith Slayer?” 

It’s such a strangely anachronistic statement that Obi-Wan pauses mid-sentence, eyebrows raised. "Now that's a name I've not heard in a long time…" How long has it been since he managed to bury that unfortunate moniker from Temple parlance? The Jedi himself looks somewhere between contemplative and suspicious, so Obi-Wan pushes on with the rest of his attempted explanation. “… We are investigating a hyperspace disruption upon request of the Confederate Interspace Transportation Authority—”

“My research was approved by the Jedi High Council,” the old master interrupts, drawing a hand across his body tellingly. “I do not know who has thereafter laid claim to this system, but it has no bearing on matters of the Force.” As predicted, he draws a lightsaber hilt from his hip, and holds it off to his side, unlit, as he openly assesses the scene before him. “Can you not sense the Dark Side in your companion’s manipulation of these ruins?”

Obi-Wan rolls his shoulders back with a resigned sigh and a gentle apology for the shields he didn’t want to raise in the bond. His outer robe falls to the floor with a quiet whisper of movement, allowing him the freer retrieval of his own lightsaber. “Master Jedi, my ‘companion’ is merely shutting this place _down_.”

“It cannot be done.” 

The man’s hold on his hilt tightens, but he hesitates a moment longer, and Obi-Wan almost regrets his answer before he gives it. 

“Not in the Light, no.”

The familiar snap-hiss of a lightsaber igniting is what finally spawns a curious tap against Obi-Wan’s newly raised shielding. Overhead, a half dozen, fist-sized lights swirl closer to the new yellow-green hue in a buzz of Force-driven curiosity. Obi-Wan slips ease-support-faith quickly around the shield and ignites his own saber with a flick of his wrist. The clear blue blade is enough to draw careful consideration, but does not stop their visitor from drawing his lightsaber back into a two-handed grip by his right shoulder. 

“Stand down.”

Nostalgia curls Obi-Wan’s lips as he immediately falls back into the traditional opening stance of Soresu, holding the singing light in parallel to his raised hand. “I will not.”

“Then you are lost.”

Well, _that_ seems a little overdramatic. 

Obi-Wan resolves not to linger on the thought and steps forward to catch his opponent’s first strike. The man seems surprised by the seemingly aggressive action given his chosen form, but adapts quickly. Not in the way of someone who is merely well-trained, Obi-Wan observes with some dismay, but that of a man who has actually seen battle. A shame he can’t place the face to anyone he remembers from the war. A shame and a little worrying, really, since he was rather hoping to keep this from becoming violent. 

“This seems a little silly,” he attempts on the back of a sweeping parry. “Surely we can have a more… civilized discussion.”

“Abandon the ritual,” his opponent rather predictably returns, flowing forward into a series of Force-assisted swings.

“You must see I cannot.”

One careful step back is as far as Obi-Wan allows them to go. Whatever the Jedi’s cause for concern, he knows Anakin can handle it. _Will_ handle it. As long as he remains undisturbed. That is the line he’s drawn and refuses to let the intruder cross. So he pivots, sidesteps, and, instead of blocking, slams his discarded cloak into the man’s stomach with just enough Force to send him back several feet. 

“You _almost_ fight like a Jedi,” the man says as he snatches the offending robe and tosses it off to the side again.

“I could say the same of you,” Obi-Wan answers. 

“I’d heard rumors of Dark Siders in the Outer Rim…” The Jedi continues, half to himself as he settles into a walking guard. 

Force help him — “ _Rumors?_ ” Obi-Wan echoes with a quirked eyebrow. “And here I’d thought we were fairly well known by now.”

The man’s brow furrows a moment before smoothing out once more. He points his saber commandingly back in Obi-Wan’s direction. “‘We’?” He echoes. “Separatists, or do you claim the mantle of Sith now?”

It’s almost enough to break Obi-Wan’s guard. Where did this guy _come from_? For that matter, now that he’s thinking about it, how did a Jedi get this far into Confederate space without some sort of escort? At the very least, they should have been subject to Dooku’s caviling over the situation at _least_ once before they left. 

His confusion must be obvious, given the man’s sudden, Force-assisted dash forward. Obi-Wan is quicker, but it’s a little too close to his line for comfort, so he throws the extra weight of his momentum into the riposte that sends his opponent stumbling back again. Something brushes over his shields, but he ignores it in favor of spinning his blade down into a low, walking guard. 

“There are no more Separatists, Master Jedi,” he says with more calm in his voice than he knows is apparent in the protective prowl he maintains between his husband and his opponent. “The war ended years ago. Surely you remember?”

Remarkably, the man seems to take this in stride with a simple inclination of his head. “So I have heard in the monastery above.”

“… And you disbelieve them because…?”

“I hear _many_ things from those deluded monks,” the man answers, but his gaze continues to flick to the powerful torrent in the Force just over Obi-Wan’s shoulder. 

“… I will not let you pass, Friend, but I see no reason to continue if you are willing to discuss things civilly.”

For a single, blessed moment, Obi-Wan almost thinks he’s finally gotten through.

Then the Jedi launches into the air, and he settles in for a long match.

Sith _hells_. 

* * *

“All done!” Anakin announces brightly half an hour later. He spins triumphantly from the console and the wild, blaring tangle of pain-recovery-fear-wonder disperses like smoke in the wind. “So about those shields— ah.” 

“Welcome back, Dear One,” Obi-Wan grunts through a two-handed block, shifting his weight forward to shove his opponent back again. 

Anakin settles back on his heels to take in the scene before him. The Jedi is clearly the other presence he’d felt — had known, however briefly — when settled so deeply in the Force. An older human sustained by the Force just like all the revered masters in the Temple, but not nearly as distinguished as _his_ Master, of course. Not nearly as well-maintained physically, either, given the obvious control Obi-Wan is keeping over an engagement that seems to have lasted for quite a while. 

“How long has it been?”

He’d already _know_ if not for certain walls between them that are most definitely being dragged down even as he asks. Really, it had been the shields more than the unfamiliar presence that had turned a carefully precise attempt to find and heal the wound being repeatedly pricked into an irritably quick stitch up and shut down instead. Obi-Wan should _know better_ , he thinks, nevertheless poking curiously all over the new wall and plucking at an edge, waiting for something to give.

Ten feet forward, Obi-Wan huffs something under his breath and sidesteps another attack with a beautifully executed Soresu sweep, catching the Jedi’s yellow-green blade at an odd angle. “Oh, twenty minutes or so, I think,” he hums, raising a second hand to his hilt in order to quickly shift his grip, throwing his opponent off balance once more. The moment he can put space between them, the shield finally drops.

Re-connection is a heady rush that makes Anakin sigh happily, his contentment all but rolling through the Force around them. “ _Much_ better.”

“… Are you planning on _helping_ at some point?” Obi-Wan calls back without turning away from the threat before him. 

“Why?” Anakin grins, arms crossed as he watches the admittedly slowed back and forth in open appreciation for the skill on display. “It looks like you’re handling it just fine, Master~”

“ _Anakin._ ” The exasperated tone would mean more if Obi-Wan's fondness-humor-love wasn't already saturating their bond.

The Jedi pauses, falling back into an uncertain, open guard. “Anakin Skywalker?” His gaze flicks between them again, giving just enough time for a sinking sensation to settle into the Force before skeptically adding, “ _That's_ the Chosen One?”  


Anakin grimaces. 

Obi-Wan tries to hide his sigh. "He _is_ the vergence you sensed, yes."

“Then you really are Obi-Wan Kenobi? Jinn’s padawan?” 

The man sounds so confused, Anakin _also_ turns his attention to Obi-Wan directly. “Where’d you _find_ this guy?”

“ _Anakin_ ,” Obi-Wan openly sighs his exasperation this time. “Qui-Gon Jinn was my master, yes,” he directs back to the Jedi.

There's a pregnant pause as the Jedi holds his guard, but he seems to be swiftly re-evaluating the situation between the three of them. "… Earlier–" Obi-Wan is already flushing dread-embarrassment into the Force by the time the man finishes with a contemplative, "you said he was your husband."

Anakin straightens up immediately with an overtly proud, " _Oh_?"

The man's gaze settles on him instead. "And yet you greeted him as your master."

" _This_ again?" Aggravation deflates Anakin quicker than anything, and he strides forward until he's even with Obi-Wan. "Look, I don't know what rock you've been under—"

"Anakin—"

"— but we didn't get married until _after_ I was knighted, okay? And we'd already left the Order by then anyway!"

The distinct feeling of _Force, help me_ slips through the bond before it can be shunted into the Force, and by then Obi-Wan has already uttered an exasperated, "Anakin, that is _not_ helping."

Anakin looks between the two: his master, whose signature still thrums with the adrenaline of a long fight, hardly out of breath, that one tuft of hair slightly out of place in that endearingly attractive way it always musses from too much movement — and the old master holding warily to a tired guard, his clothing clearly worn, the grip of his hilt confident but too tight, his stance strong but tense. He doesn't really _need_ the Force to know what Obi-Wan means by the comment, but that doesn't mean he's going to be _less_ dramatic with his indignation over this particular topic.

He raises his hands in open acquiescence to his husband's withering stare and gives a hasty, "Fine, fine, I'm _helping_!" before turning to the other man directly. "Look, Master, ah, whoever you are—"

"I am Master Rhel Taa, of—"

"Right, Master Taa," Anakin barrels over, heedless, even, of the appalled look Obi-Wan shoots him in the meantime. It's easy either way, but the bubbling humor in his husband's signature really undercuts the attempted admonishment. "You've been stuck here for, what? Eleven years? Twelve?"

Taa's expression tightens, but his guard holds steady. "… How do you—?”

"Master, _when_ was it you were appointed to the High Council?"

Obi-Wan follows his lead with an easy, thoughtful look. "It can't have been more than a month after the start of the war."

The Jedi's eyebrows raise, though somewhat doubtfully.

"Right," Anakin agrees with a crisp nod. "So you never heard of this guy," — he gestures broadly to Taa and the lit saber no more than three feet from his outstretched hand — "because he got assigned to relic-hunting or temple-hopping or something before all hell broke loose and," — he turns back to Taa — " _you_ never actually met Obi-Wan, or saw him on the Council, or heard anything really important beyond the war happening because you lost communication with the Order when you crashed here, right?"

"Updates have been admittedly… limited to the news brought by those who have also crashed here," Rhel haltingly agrees, dark gaze flicking rapidly between the two of them as he openly parses the theory presented. "… Due to the same aberration that no doubt trapped you here as well.”

"Due to the _wound in the Force_ that I _just fixed_ ," Anakin immediately corrects and then writes off with a wave of his hand. "You're welcome, by the way."

Rhel stares and Obi-Wan finally eases out of his stance. He can already sense his master's criticism for the smug pride underlying his announcement, but honestly he's not _wrong_. They _would_ all be stuck here if he hadn't figured out the problem and made the stupid Sith nonsense stop _poking at it_ like a kid with a scab. _That_ imagery, at least, finally manages to tug a stifled chuckle from his husband. 

_Better_.

Obi-Wan gives a rueful shake of his head and offers a proper bow to Master Taa before deactivating his blade. "He _is_ right. I apologize for not explaining better earlier, but I must confess I was a bit strapped for time."

"Right, then." Anakin claps his hands together before Rhel gets a word in edgewise and turns back to Obi-Wan, "Let's get going. The kids are probably getting anxious."

"Oh, it's the _kids_?" Obi-Wan too fondly retorts with a lift of his brows. 

Anakin just grins brashly in return. There's no need for meaningful glances or coded hand gestures, so it only takes a second or two for a flash of their ship, the notion of a space station, and the warmth of a jungle sun to settle between them. Honestly, he probably didn't have to _check_. It's the sound of Rhel's lightsaber deactivating that reminds him there's still another person to inform, however.

"Just give us a few to catalogue this place and pack up," he explains with a nod for the Jedi. "You can rest up first."

" _Anakin_."

"What? He fought the Master of Soresu for something like twenty minutes! He needs a break!"

### 12 BBY, 7th Month: Aboard the Dawnbreaker

"Where did I put the—"

"Honestly, Anakin, _you're_ the one who packed it."

"Yeah, but _you're_ the one that ate half of it already."

"And which of us is known for leaving everything strewn about, precisely?"

"Remind me why I married you, again?"

“Safety, I believe. One more to your right."

Rhel takes a long, slow sip of surprisingly fresh tea and watches in curious disbelief as the cabinet just to Anakin's right swings open, spilling its contents into suspended animation for perusal. The room itself isn't that large: a small kitchenette with a pair of benches built into the wall and a table just large enough for four average-sized humans. He's the only one making any use if it now, however, having been tucked away with a firm sort of politeness he hasn't felt since his last visit to the Halls of Healing over a decade ago. 

Watching his odd pair of saviors run back and forth through the modest starship in preparation for launch, mostly silent and occasionally pursued by an aggressive R2 unit, he finds himself thankful for a reason to stay at a distance. It's the master, he's fairly certain, who eventually noticed his thoughtful rumination on the bizarre way the Force flows between them and prompted the man who is apparently _The Chosen One_ into conversing out loud again. 

"I don't disagree, but we're not to Yavin yet, Anakin."

… Except when he apparently forgets and _something_ is somehow communicated via, near as Rhel can observe, Skywalker's odd Force… nuzzling? instead. Perhaps he _has_ been unaware of the galaxy at large for too long, Taa muses, but surely this sort of bewildering madness can't have infected the _entire_ Order in his absence? He blows softly over his tea and curls his hands around the cup to enjoy its warmth.

The small parade of non-perishables flies back into the cabinet, which Anakin quickly latches with an absent wave of his hand. 

:. Weather = turning. Launch. .:

At least, Rhel's fairly certain that's the gist of the statement. His Binary is admittedly rusty, and there were several beeps between that seemed extraneous at best.

" _Artoo_ ," Obi-Wan sighs in nearly the same tone he's said his husband's name at least ten times since their arrival.

The R2 unit beeps more furiously, and Rhel actively refrains from attempting translation. 

"Okay, okay, easy buddy," Anakin reaches down to pat the droid's head affectionately. Oddly, the Force seems to shift to accompany the motion. Does this man do _anything_ without the Force? "Go get us started?" Another shorter beep, and Anakin gives one last pat — echoed _again_ in the Force — before striding over to set some kind of… rolled up bag of food? on the table before him. 

The droid wheels off with a screech that somehow resembles an indignant huff, behind him.

Rhel politely shifts his gaze from the bag to its provider. 

"Protein Cakes," Anakin announces with a gesture towards the food. "I don't really have time to make anything if we want to get off planet before the weather hits, but you look like you could use the pick-me-up." He flashes a warm smile and for a disconcerting moment, Rhel could _swear_ the Force itself radiates welcome-empathy-ease. 

But whatever his — admittedly strange — circumstances, he's still a Jedi Master, so he nods with a polite, "That is… thoughtful, thank you," and calmly passes his disquiet into the Force.

Another sunny beam of goodwill all but thunders into him and then Anakin makes for the same hall the droid disappeared down moments before. He swings by Obi-Wan on his way, snagging the man by an easy tug of his robe and leaning in to steal a kiss. The Force around them, likewise — Rhel considers the bag of protein cakes until the sound of the engines kicks up.

"They aren't very sweet," Obi-Wan's calm voice eventually cuts in over the sound as he slides on to the bench across from him. "But they've got a pleasant taste. Very gentle, easy to digest. Anakin was quite insistent on making something light that we could easily travel with." He pauses, then, looking contemplatively at the bag for another moment before retrieving it to pull one out, breaking it in half and taking a bite himself. 

He's… appreciably straightforward, at least. Rhel obligingly takes the other half, but waits until his host has swallowed his own bite before trying any for himself. The taste is unexpectedly light — almost airy — and more crisp than he anticipated. 

“A fair bit better than ration bars, hm?” Obi-Wan announces with a knowing look to match his ability to apparently pull Rhel’s thoughts straight from his mind.

“Quite,” he agrees with a small nod.

“Anakin was particularly insistent on that… I can’t say I blame him,” the man continues, politely pouring a second cup of tea from the set left at the table before topping up Rhel’s as well. “I’m not entirely sure how the Republic ever approved their rations for consumption. Four years was… _more_ than enough.”

Rhel chews contemplatively on the cake that is, admittedly, a good deal better than ration bars he ran out of years ago. Not that the subsequent mash of edible bark and small mammals he’d largely lived off of for the past decade or so was much better. “… Only four years.”

Across from him, Obi-Wan grimaces slightly into his cup of tea. “In the end,” he confirms after a moment. “More than long enough for most.”

“A swift end ushered in by your defection?” He hadn’t meant to be so blunt. Perhaps it’s the strange, open warmth infusing the flow of the Force throughout the whole of their ship. Or perhaps it’s merely Rhel’s own unprompted hermitage that makes it so difficult to finally speak with people who shouldn’t feel quite so… alien.

Fortunately, Obi-Wan’s expression slips to wry amusement in lieu of the defensive indignation one might more easily expect of a former Jedi scrambling to justify a Fall. “I understand how it looks, Master Taa,” he says, setting his cup down and idly dipping a piece of protein cake just past the rim. “The High Council had similar concerns — both as it happened and later, when we re-established good relations.”

Rhel frowns, instinctively raising a hand to smooth down the long whiskers of a shaggy beard he never meant to wear. The Order he’d last known was a monolithic institution, one returned to its full glory during the Reformation not a thousand years prior. Even with the darkening of the Force that had eventually _led_ to his assignment, it is difficult to fathom the depth of catastrophe that must have swept the Galaxy in his absence.

“… The monks used to talk about how many more people arrived in that time,” he murmurs.

“There is still… quite a large diaspora that fled the conflict,” Obi-Wan quietly replies between small bites of the light cake. “We are still finding pockets like Elamposnia all over the galaxy.” He settles back with his tea, gaze somewhat distant as his presence in the Force smooths to something more easily recognizable as the Jedi Master he supposedly once was. “But honestly, it’s not all that different from our work within the Order prior to the war.”

“On behalf of the … Confederacy, now, you called it?”

Surprisingly, Obi-Wan huffs a quiet laugh at his _entirely reasonable_ question. Rhel quirks an eyebrow, but the other master waves away his query. A sense of fondness slips into the Force, and — not for the first time — Rhel feels as though he’s missed something entirely.

“We take requests from both the Republic and the Confederacy,” Obi-Wan finally clarifies. “Elamposnia was a local matter, mostly. The Systems along the Ardan Cross have been suffering due to the hyperspace anomaly and so the Transportation Authority spent a while trying to get the matter sorted, before ultimately asking for our help in the matter.” He gives an absent shrug. 

“Two months ago, it was sentient trafficking along the Mid Rim border,” he continues in much the way of any wizened master Rhel can still bring to mind. “The Order had extensive access to Republic records on the matter, but, as you may imagine, little to no access about what was happening on the other end of things.”

“And you do,” Rhel skeptically echoes, brow furrowed in open confusion. 

“Well, we certainly have _more_ access,” Obi-Wan answers with the same undercurrent of amusement. “It was… messy, but ultimately resolved to the benefit of both sides and, most importantly, those harmed by it.” 

“… The Galaxy has become something… entirely unknowable during my absence,” Rhel eventually sighs down into his cup. He’s grateful for the silence that falls comfortably after. The man across from him certainly still _feels_ like a Jedi Master in these little moments between impossible descriptions. It gives him time to recognize the fear, uncertainty and doubt coiling through his veins, and pass it carefully into the Force. 

His teacup being silently refilled shakes him from silent reverie.

“If you would like to meditate,” Obi-Wan says as he sets the pot carefully on the middle of the table once more, “I can find our mats. They’re a good bit more comfortable than the bench.”

Rhel blinks his surprise at the offer. “An odd suggestion from one who abandoned the Order for a lover.”

His words finally seem to land, but only long enough for Obi-Wan to press his lips together and, presumably, filter through his own emotions on the matter. “We have not abandoned _all_ we learned—”

“Then you are a new sect,” Rhel answers, tone neutral for all he knows the words themselves are inflammatory. “Did we learn _nothing_ in reformation? Or did the war cause us to fall so far—?”

“ _No one_ is _Falling_.”

Anakin’s curt declaration is enough to jerk Rhel upright in his seat: he hadn’t even noticed the man rejoin them. The Force hadn’t even _whispered_ a warning. “That is not—”

“I mean, first of all, we’re _way_ nicer than any Sith _I’ve_ met,” he continues on an indignant huff, one hand at his hip and the other gesturing broadly with his counter arguments. “Well, _saner_ , at any rate. I haven’t even tried to attack you _once_ —”

“Anakin—”

“And _Master_ only defended when _you_ attacked _us_.”

“You were manipulating a _Sith Ruin_ ,” Rhel flatly points out.

“Uh, _yeah_? It was me or no one, _so_ —” 

“He’s just confused, Dear One.” It’s hardly more than sigh, but it’s apparently enough to stem the tide. “Join us?”

Anakin just gives a rough exhale and rakes a hand back through his hair in clear irritation. Then his presence in the Force slides forward, curling into his master’s ahead of him until they’re both tucked together on the bench. It’s… calmer than Rhel anticipated. They seem at once intimately tangled up in each other to a degree that makes it alarmingly difficult to separate them in the Force, but at the same time wholly at ease and… comfortable with the invasion. 

Rhel takes another, slow sip of tea and carefully returns the cup to the table when he finishes. “I would like to use your communication array.”

Anakin’s amused snort is at least somewhat expected. “I bet.”

“You are welcome to it, but I’m afraid you’ll have some difficulty,” Obi-Wan cautions, tone and presence serenely neutral as he busies himself with a third cup for his husband.

Rhel glances between them in mild bemusement. Back in the ruins, with no explanations and the Force flaring up like a wounded animal, he might have expected to be hindered from reaching out to the Order directly. Now, though?

“It’s not like you’re thinking,” Anakin announces, plucking his cup up in the same moment his husband finishes preparing it. “The Order changed most of their protocols a couple of years after the Treaty. Probably the only thing that’ll still work is the beacon signal and that’s still read-only.” 

It doesn’t take much effort to make the connection _there_. “Because of you.” _Force_ — are they trustworthy or _not_? If so, they’re doing quite an awful job convincing him of it.

“And Dooku,” Obi-Wan mildly points out.

“Yeah, who knew he remembered all that?” Anakin sighs. “Would’ve been nice to realize that _during_ the war.”

“ _Councilor Dooku_?” Rhel interrupts before they have a chance to lose him completely. Again. They both still in the same moment: Obi-Wan halfway through retrieving his cup and Anakin’s reach for a protein cake frozen midair. “I’d heard he left, but I can’t imagine why that —”

Anakin’s attention — finally, unfortunately — swings back to Rhel directly. “It’s not ‘Councilor Dooku’ it’s _Count_ Dooku. Of Serenno? Head of the Confederacy? Any of this ringing a bell?”

Rhel settles back in his bench in an attempt to give himself space enough to breathe. “I… had heard of his… involvement in the separatist government,” he slowly picks through, keeping his gaze carefully on the two of them. “At the time, I assumed—”

“Yeah, well, you _assumed_ wrong,” Anakin huffs in a flurry of indignation. “We’ve got nothing to do with that asshole.”

“… Except running missions for him?” Rhel shifts his attention back to Obi-Wan just in time to catch the flicker of tired amusement cross his expression. 

“ _No_.”

“From a _certain_ —”

“No, no, no, no, you _have_ to be kidding,” Anakin pushes, immediately forgoing his still-floating cake in favor of leaning across the table. 

Rhel barely manages to repress another backward lean. “… Something else I have missed?”

Anakin makes a strangled noise and throws himself back against the bench with a blast of disbelief so strong, Rhel has to remind himself it isn’t _his own_. He shifts his gaze back to Obi-Wan, who has set his cup down with the measured care and half distant gaze of a strategist swiftly re-arranging their plan of attack. They don’t even look at each other, but within seconds Anakin is straightening in his seat and shaking his head like any sort of discussion has been had _at all_ and his husband presses a tired hand to the bridge of his nose. 

“No, _no_ ,” Anakin begins insisting all over again. “I don’t _care_ — he cut off my _arm._ ” 

“I know.”

“He started _an intergalactic war_.” Anakin bursts out with a broad sweep of said mechano-arm.

“I know.”

“ _He’s_ the one that Fell!”

Rhel’s eyebrows head for his hairline. 

“Yes, Anakin,” Obi-Wan exhales, “he did.”

* * *

“… and after all of that, the Order just… _let you_ found a competing institution?” 

Master Rhel Taa isn’t used to being quite so incredulous with his words, but in his defense, it’s… quite a lot to take in. The Fall of one of the most well-respected members of the High Council. Confirmation of the fearsome rumors that the Sith had returned to the galaxy, which had been whispered all over the Temple since the ill-fated death of Qui-Gon Jinn. An army of clones produced in secret clashing against an endless droid army. 

_Jedi_ standing in the role of Generals. _Padawans_ given command of soldiers. Horrific tales of battles won and lost. Then, almost out of no where, an Armistice neither can even explain. After all _that_ … 

“Well,” Obi-Wan hums, busying himself by the sink with the empty teapot, “I wouldn’t exactly say we consulted them on the matter.”

“And in the beginning it was just me and Master, anyway,” Anakin offers on a good natured shrug. The time spent reconstructing the entire sequence of events seems to have put him in a far better mood, in spite of the topic. 

“We hadn’t planned on much else,” Obi-Wan amiably agrees. “The marriage was just a formality at first; we honestly weren’t sure we wouldn’t be thrown back into active duty regardless.” 

“Yeah, it wasn’t until Snips — er, my padawan — showed up with a platoon that things got a little —”

“Intense?”

“Sure,” Anakin immediately accepts with a bright smile. 

“You defected _with an army_ ,” Rhel flatly summarizes.

“Technically,” Obi-Wan cuts in, “we founded an officially recognized Independent Colony and the vod claimed asylum.”

“Yeah, that,” Anakin agrees with a dismissive wave in the same moment a roll of affectionate pride washes through the room. His husband just shakes his head and returns to the table with a newly made pot of tea. “Of course, however it happened, we weren’t about to just _abandon_ them. They’re good men! All the Force sensitives came much later. Except Caje, I guess, but that was largely Master’s reputation and obviously we weren’t going to just leave some poor kid to terrorize his family. Oh, and the slaves, we’ve always had a lot of —”

“You have _slaves_?” Rhel regrets his aghast commentary the moment the words leave his mouth. 

“We do _not_!”

“You just—”

“We have a lot of _refugees_ ,” Anakin snaps. 

Rhel… can’t entirely bring himself to be upset with that. It’s not exactly unexpected, after everything else, and he’s still not convinced they won’t end up with some sort of terrible schism and a corrupted cult of Sith. Again. Still, even with all the… clear and overt attachment, the defection, the _marriage_ … He exhales quietly and inclines his head, which seems to settle the churn of the Force between them for now. 

"I suppose I'll see it all soon enough."

Anakin's dismissive snort catches him off guard. "Yeah, no, I don't think so."

"I'm afraid Yavin is a restricted system, Master Taa." Kenobi's interjection is surprisingly firm, just when Rhel had begun anticipating his calming interventions. Anakin, just as strangely, appears to settle as quickly as he might have expected from a more conciliatory gesture. "As such, we'll be taking you on to Phindar before heading home, ourselves. You understand."

It's more of a command than a request for agreement, and before Rhel can voice any objections — _Phindar?_ How is _that_ supposed to help him find a way to Coruscant? — a swift series of beeps trills out from Anakin's hip. 

"And _that_ would be Ahsoka!" Anakin immediately abandons their current conversation to unhook a commlink from his belt and set it on the table, grinning broadly as the holo-image of a… kel dor? flickers into view. 

"Have I called at an inopportune time?"

Obi-Wan stifles a chuckle.

"No, no, you're fine," Anakin sighs, struggling through a disappointed pout. 

"Don't mind him, Master Plo." Obi-Wan reaches forward to adjust the camera wider so he can be included in the frame. "He was just expecting Ahsoka."

"Ah." There's a hint of mirth in the old Councilor's tone, before the hiss of his respirator. "My apologies, then. I will be sure to keep things brief. I hear you have found another of our wayward kin?"

Rhel straightens where he sits as Obi-Wan turns the comm device in his direction instead. "… Rhel Taa, Master Plo," he greets with more relief than is probably warranted, given his relative safety thus far. "It is good to hear from a member of the Council… though I must admit I was not expecting to."

It's always difficult to read a kel dor — Jedi or otherwise — but the soft chuckle carries his response easily enough through the comm. "Yes, I imagine you have had quite the trip, given our records. We assumed you had passed during the war."

Anakin, for some reason, gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Rhel lifts his eyebrows slightly, but says only, "I may as well have, for all I know of things now."

Plo nods with a solemn sort of amusement Rhel has only ever associated with the old masters on the Council. "Much has indeed changed since your last report, but perhaps not so much as you may believe. For now, be at ease. Masters Skywalker and Kenobi will see you safely to civilization, and we should have transportation arranged by then." 

A sense of relief washes over Rhel like a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Perhaps he should have been more aware, or perhaps more in control of himself, but all he can do now is make note of the lingering uncertainty in his thoughts as it passes into the Force. He offers Plo a polite bow of his head and says only, "I look forward to being among the Order again."

The Councilor tilts his head in a ponderous gesture, as if his words require some deeper contemplation. "They may not call themselves Jedi, Master Taa, but it has been my experience that many of the truths we cling to depend on our point of view."

## Epilogue

### 9 BBY, 1st Month: Castle Serenno, Count’s Private Chambers

Sifo-Dyas blinks into the darkness. The bed is comfortable, the moon shines only softly through the balcony doors, and no visions cloud his mind. So what roused him? It’s not until he shifts beneath the warm, winter comforter that an answer drifts through the dark room to him.

“Go back to sleep.”

He sits up in time to watch Dooku settle the royal cloak of Serreno over his shoulders. “…Doo?” It takes a moment longer to secure the mass of cloth before it slides forward to conceal what looks like a set of night clothes beneath. Sifo-Dyas glances to the chrono on the nightstand. “… it’s barely two—”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Dooku mutters, gaze lingering a moment too long before turning for the door. “I won’t be long.”

“What are you—” 

“It’s just a poorly timed holocall,” the Count answers, pausing with his hand hovering over the door’s activation panel. He glances over his shoulder, expression equal parts irritated and — “Go back to sleep,” he repeats as he leaves.

Sifo-Dyas doesn’t, of course. 

Surprisingly, Dooku really doesn’t take that long. Sifo-Dyas barely has the time to turn on a dim lamp and heat a small kettle of tea before the Count returns, sweeping just as irritably back into the room as when he’d left it. Sifo glances up from his pour with a concerned frown. “Welcome back.”

“I thought I told you to go back to sleep,” Dooku sighs, already undoing the clasps of his cloak. 

“I don’t recall agreeing to,” Sifo-Dyas says, setting the kettle down and gesturing to the far cup. “What—”

“It can wait for morning.”

“Obviously it _can’t_.”

Dooku huffs slightly under his breath and even Sifo-Dyas is at a loss as to whether it’s supposed to be a laugh or not. Then, the Count finishes removing his cloak — revealing fine, cream night clothes, just as expected — and throws it unceremoniously over the back of the chair closest to him. “It was Akis.”

Which answers precious little aside from why Dooku felt the need to actually entertain answering a holocall _at two in the morning_. Sifo-Dyas frowns uncertainly, hardly remembering much about the iktotchi woman usually hidden in the deep folds of a black cowl other than the peculiar sort of businesslike relationship she held with Dooku when they both served the same Sith Lord. “… I… am surprised she still lives,” Sifo-Dyas manages after a moment’s internal debate.

Dooku’s expression is dry as he steps around to join him at the fireplace. “As was I, in fact.” 

Sifo-Dyas sighs quietly and settles into one of the chairs, collecting his cup in the process. It’s been several years since Dooku’s felt the need to be so obtuse in his answers, so he allows himself a moment’s reprieve for a tired mind not ready to deal with such a suddenly cantankerous source of information. It’s likely more from Dooku becoming lost in his own thoughts than any sort of intention to keep him in the dark, so he glances up to where the Count lingers irritably between the fire and the chair, and simply asks, “And the purpose of her call?”

Dooku breaks out of his reverie with a mild shake of his head. There’s a long pause. “The Sith are back.” He drops rather gracelessly into the second chair with a huffed out, “I _guess_.”

### THE FINAL TIMELINE

##### 32 BBY

  * < **Shatterpoint** > Darth Plagueis doesn’t die!
  * Sifo-Dyas travels to Oba Diah 
    * < **Shatterpoint** > Doesn’t die, ends up on Serenno with Dooku. It’s complicated.



##### 22 BBY

  * < **Shatterpoint** > Sev’rance Tann doesn’t die!
  * Fun Times With Jabba’s Kid 
    * < **Shatterpoint** > Sifo-Dyas makes a convincing case for the Confederacy.



##### 21 BBY

  * < **Shatterpoint** > Mina Bonteri is not killed by Dooku
  * Rush Clovis does some war profiteering, realizes he's a bit of a cunt, gets removed from his seat in the Senate. _(aka: TCW S2:E4, "Senate Spy”)_



##### 20 BBY

  * Rush continues working for the Banking Clan, ultimately finding the same, damning information concerning clan leadership and their role in the war.



##### 19 BBY

  * Battle of Sundari 
    * < **Shatterpoint** > Anakin goes with Obi-Wan, Satine lives, Maul doesn’t
  * < **Shatterpoint** > A’Sharad Hett goes missing while on a mission deep in the Outer Rim 
    * Is stranded on Korriban and manages to survive buried in a Sith tomb
    * Discovers the holocron of Sith Lady XoXaan, Falls
  * < **Shatterpoint** > Darth Plagueis is killed by Palpatine & Darth Akis
  * The Departure of the Sith
  * Dooku Kills the entire Separatist Leadership Council
  * Clovis shows the remaining Banking Clan leadership what he already knows in light of everyone else being dead. 
    * Is appointed Interim Leader of the Banking Clan 
    * Immediately aligns them more strongly with the Republic because shit be cray
  * Ventress is laid off, is pretty okay with this
  * Separatist Movements abruptly change
  * Ahsoka’s Trial / Leaving The Order 
    * Tholme tells Obi-Wan to keep his lineage in check because shit’s getting real
  * Obi-Wan Negotiates a General Armistice Between The Republic and Separatists 
    * < **Shatterpoint** > (obviously this never happened in Canon, but it basically replaces all of Anakin’s bad decisions post Ahsoka so we’ll call it a shatterpoint)
  * Obi-Wan and Anakin Leave The Order
  * Obi-Wan and Anakin take a vacation to Yavin IV
  * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at Phindar Space station and are found by Ahsoka
  * Obi-Wan and Anakin arrive at an unnamed space station on the Perlemian Trade Route (and buy a bus)



##### 18 BBY

  * Treaty Negotiations Begin between the Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems
  * **The Clone Wars Officially End**
  * Yavin IV Officially Colonized 
    * The 501st and 212th Battalions are Officially Released to Yavin IV
    * Discovery of the Lost Jedi City on Yavin IV
  * Obi-Wan and Anakin adopt a family from Kijimi 
    * Gain First Post-Order Padawan
  * Obi-Wan and Anakin rescue some slaves from Hutt space
  * The Jedi Order adopts as many clones as possible



##### 17 BBY

  * Grand Army of the Republic Disbanded
  * Republic Navy Re-Established 
  * Jedi Master A’Sharad Hett emerges from XoXaan’s tomb as Darth Krayt 
    * Immediately loses a duel, his lightsaber, and his pride; is left for dead
  * Unnamed Sith, mugger of Darth Krayt, goes on a bender through several Confederate Systems, freaking out Parliament and mildly annoying Count Dooku. 
    * Obi-Wan and Anakin Handle Ittm
  * Darth Krayt loses his second official duel under his new title, remembers humility, moves to Yavin IV.



##### 14 BBY

  * Obi-Wan and Anakin return to Coruscant, meet with Padmé, go to the Temple
  * Anakin finds a Sith Shrine buried deep under the Jedi Temple and sticks his nose in
  * Outer Rim Development and Economic Outreach Conference is hosted on Coruscant
  * Ancient Sith Shrine under the Jedi Temple neutralized
  * Jedi Knight Kyora dispatched to observe strange hippie commune on Yavin IV
  * Rush frantically slaps duct tape on a crumbling financial system in desperate attempt to prevent the complete collapse of the banking system, ultimately decides he needs the other half of the puzzle and jumps on the first plausible reason to make inquiries directly to the man he's pretty sure orchestrated part of it.
  * Master Kostana confirms Master Sifo-Dyas is alive and well on Serenno



##### 12 BBY

  * Obi-Wan and Anakin find Jedi Master Rhel Taa on a typical mission to Elamposnia



##### 9 BBY

  * The Sith Return, but call ahead first



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ## … And That’s A Wrap!
> 
> Dooku, basically:
> 
>   
> It’s been a long year, but we hope everyone who got to the end enjoyed this little bit of escapism as much as we have! 
> 
> Above, you’ll find the final and complete timeline for the entire story. It’s a doozy, but informative, so if you have any questions about how or when things happen, check there first! Aside from that, you may notice some light edits as I go back through earlier chapters one last time to standardize formatting and clean up previous import mishaps.
> 
> ### Going Forward…
> 
> The sequel is slated for later this year! 
> 
> If you’re curious to see where the story goes from here, you can subscribe to [myself](https://archiveofourown.org/users/w3djyt), to [AuroraExecution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraExecution/), or to the series [Shatterpoint Theory](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1641970) directly to receive a notification when it gets posted! 
> 
> I’m sure you’ll all be excited to hear that part two **will be chronological**. Rejoice! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و It will take on all the juicy bits of dangling plots we’ve so far left to simmer in the background. Everything from Palpatine’s lingering plots, to unexplained visions, unrealized Orders, already hinted special guest appearances and, most prominently, the return of the Sith. 
> 
> So thank you to everyone who has gotten this far, and we hope to see you again soon!
> 
> P.S. The line in brackets from the final summary was shamelessly stolen from one of our favorite bookmark comments, but we forgot the user TT_TT If you see this: you're awesome and your summary was awesome <3


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